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BOWLES/ HAL 


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POEMS 


BY 


fctt,V<-^.^«*Oa 


'GRACE  GREENWOOD.^ 


BOSTON: 
TICK  NOR,    REED,    AND    FIELDS 

At  DCCC  H. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

SARA    J.    CLARKE, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

METCALF    AND    COMPANY 
PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


DEDICATION. 

TO    MY    MOTHER. 

ON  your  heart,  my  beloved  mother,  I  would  lay  this 
offering  ;  —  because  from  the  inflowing  of  your  nature  all 
poetry  of  mine  has  its  source,  so  that  these  lays,  whether 
embodying  the  light,  sweet  dreams  of  the  girl,  or  the  fer 
vor  and  aspiration  of  the  woman,  are  in  spirit  more  yours 
than  my  own  ;  —  because  from  you  come  my  joy  in  the 
beautiful,  and  my  faith  in  the  good ;— because  in  your 
great  love  I  have  found  the  strength  and  repose  and  the 
fulness  of  life. 

I  say  this  in  simple  words,  and  few,  —  for  the  reason 
that  heart-throbs  can  hardly  be  set  to  music,  and  that  I 
could  not  well  say  more,  were  all  my  soul  poured  out  in 
song. 

GRACE. 


PREFACE. 

I  HAVE  but  a  word  to  offer  in  the  way  of 
a  preface.  I  would  only  ask  a  generous  pub 
lic  to  regard  this  volume  more  as  a  promise 
than  a  performance,  —  more  as  a  prophecy  than 
a  fulfilment.  To  the  critic  I  would  only  whis 
per,  that  this  collection  is  not  nearly  as  large 
as  it  might  have  been  ;  and  that  I  am  confi 
dent  he  would  overlook  the  bad  verse  he  may 
find  in  it,  could  he  know  how  much  worse 
poetry  has  been  left  out. 


G.  G. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

PROEM .3 

ARIADNE g 

PYGMALION 13 

THE    HORSEBACK   RIDE 19 

FANNY   FORESTER 22 

THE   RESTORED 25 

DREAMS 28 

THE   WIFE'S   APPEAL 34 

THE    STORY    OF   A   LIFE 38 

RECONCILIATION 42 

PUTNAM 44 

INVOCATION   TO   MOTHER  EARTH 48 

SPIRIT    LONGINGS 51 

TO   A   BEREAVED    FRIEND 56 

I   NEVER  WILL   GROW   OLD 59 

WANTED.  —  A    THEME 63 

HERVEY    TO   NINA.  —  MISS   BREMER 67 

NINA   TO    HERVEY.— MISS   BREMER           ....  70 

SIRI,    THE    SWIMMER. — MISS   BREMER          ....  73 

THE   ARMY    OF   REFORM 76 

THE   LEAP  FROM   THE   LONG   BRIDGE            ....  80 

THE   LAST   GIFT 83 

EMILIE    PLATER 86 

LOVE'S    EMBLEMS 90 

THE    LOST    HEART 92 

THERESE 94 

SONGS -   ....  96 

VOICES   FROM   THE   OLD  WORLD:   THE    FAMINE   OF    1847  99 

THE   FLIGHT   OF   GENIUS 105 

LOVE-LETTER   TO   A   FRIEND                ....  107 


Vlii  CONTENTS. 

ILLUMINATION    FOR   VICTORIES   IN   MEXICO        .  .  .109 

VALENTINES. 

TO   FITZ-GREENE    HALLECK 112 

TO    A    REFORMER 113 

TO   MISS    C.   M.   SEDGWICK 114 

TO    MR.    GILES 115 

TO    BAYARD    TAYLOR 116 

TO    G.    P.    MORRIS 116 

TO   MISS   A.   C.   L 118 

TO   A   POET 119 

TO   THE   WIFE    OF   A   POET 120 

TO   THE   WIFE   OF  AN   ARTIST             ....  121 

TO   G.    H.   C 122 

TO    MR.    1NMAN 122 

TO    123 

TO    COUNT    124 

TO    ONE   WHO    KNOWS 125 

TO   HELEN    IRVING 126 

TO   A   POETESS 127 

TO   THE   HON.   D.   P.   KING,   WITH   AN   AUTOGRAPH             .  129 

DARKENED    HOURS        130 

THE   DREAM 134 

THE    FIRST   DOUBT 138 

THE   MIDNIGHT   VIGIL 140 

THE    MAY    MORNING 144 

WAR-SONG    OF    THE    MAGYARS 148 

THE   POET'S   HOME 151 

A   FRAGMENT 153 

TO   ONE   AFAR 156 

AN    OFFERING    TO   ANNA 158 

A   LAY 160 

CONSTANCE 162 

TO    ,    IN   ABSENCE 166 

THE   GOLD-SEEKER 170 

THE  POET  OF  TO-DAY 175 

ARNOLD  DE  WINKELRIED 179 

L'ENVOI 187 


POEMS 


PROEM. 


SOME  poet  dreams  come  to  the  soul 

In  mystic  beauty  clad, 
Unearthly  in  their  loveliness, 

So  exquisitely  sad. 

Shadowy  and  dim  and  cloud-like  things 
Floating  about  on  unseen  wings, 

They  tremble  on  our  sight ; 
As  in  our  nightly  visions  come 
Pale  spirits  from  their  starry  home, 

To  vanish  with  the  light, 
And  by  the  waking  heart  forgot, 
E'en  as  a  rose  remembers  not, 

In  sunshine  rich  and  warm, 
The  moonbeams  that  through  night's  long  hours 
Came  still  and  cold,  in  silver  showers, 

Upon  her  slumbering  form. 


PROEM. 

My  dreams,  my  dreams,  —  would  they  might  come 

To  all  like  voices  from  their  home ! 

Like  cool,  bland  breezes  at  mid-day, 

Wafting  sweet  breathings  on  their  way, 

That  tell  us  where  the  violet  springs,  — 

Like  birds  with  sunshine  on  their  win^s, 

o   " 

Like  the  glad  laugh  of  morning  rills, 
Like  the  first  day-beams  o'er  the  hills, 
Like  the  first  stars  when  twilight  closes, 
Like  the  first  blush  of  summer  roses,  —  ' 
Like  all  things  pure,  and  bright,  and  gay, 
That  lure  awhile  the  soul  away 
From  care,  and  grief,  and  feverish  strife, 
And  make  the  heart  in  love  with  life ! 

Some  lays  there  are  seem  only  sent 
To  add  to  passion's  blandishment, 

Or  wing  the  creeping  hours 
Of  souls  to  lifeless  ease  resigned, 
In  dreamy  languidness  reclined 

On  pleasure's  couch  of  flowers. 
And  some  are  like  exotics  rare, 
Found  blooming  in  the  still,  soft  air 

Of  pride  and  luxury  only  ; 
And  some  like  priceless,  burning  gems, 
Set  in  imperial  diadems, 


FROEM. 

In  very  brightness  lonely  ; 
And  some  in  stately  sluggishness, 
Forsaken  barks,  float  rudderless 

Adown  time's  silent  river  ; 
And  some  are  meteors  on  high, 
One  moment  flashing  o'er  the  sky, 

Then  lost  in  night  forever  ! 

My  lays,  my  lays,  —  would  they  might  find 

An  echo  in  my  country's  heart, 
Be  in  its  home -affections  shrined, 

Form  of  its  cherished  things  a  part! 
Be  like  wild  flowers  and  common  air, 
Blooming  for  all,  breathed  everywhere, — 
Or  like  the  glad  song  of  the  bird, 
Gushing  for  all,  felt,  more  than  heard  I 
Earnest,  untiring,  might  they  be 
Like  barks  before  a  breeze  at  sea, 

Whose  dashing  prows  point  home, — 
Like  good  knights  bound  for  Palestine, 
Like  artists,  warmed  by  fire  divine, 
O'er  icy  Alp  and  Apennine, 

Holding  their  way  to  Rome, — 
Like  arrows  flashing  through  the  fight, 
Like  eagles  on  their  sunward  flight, — 


PROEM. 

Like  to  all  things  in  which  we  see 
An  errand  and  a  destiny  ! 

And  would  to  Heaven  that  Freedom's  voice, 

Wild,  bold,  defying,  strong, 
Might  sometimes,  like  a  martial  strain, 

Peal  through  my  fearless  song  ! 
The  soft-toned  lays  of  sycophants 

May  mine  yet  ring  above, 
Clear  as  a  clarion,  and  yet 

Their  very  soul  be  love  ! 

O,  not  that  Love  who  deems  her  sphere 
Is  not  where  falls  the  mortal  tear, 

Not  by  the  mortal's  hearth, 
As  ministering  angel  here, 

Far  from  her  place  of  birth  ; 
With  earnest,  heavenward-gazing  eye, 
And  spread  wing  fluttering  for  the  sky, 
All  yearning  to  depart  she  seems, 
And  scarce  permits,  in  her  high  dreams, 

Her  feet  to  touch  the  earth. 
Away  with  such  a  love  !     Be  mine 
A  love  more  glorious,  more  divine, 
That  boweth  to  the  Infinite, 


PROEM. 

When  his  dimmed  image  meets  the  sight, 
As  't  were  all  glory  and  all  light ! 
That  loves  the  wide  world  as  it  lies, 
With  broken  soil  and  clouded  skies, 
With  changing  scenes  and  varied  lots, 
And  few  flowers  springing  in  the  spots 

Where  angel  feet  have  trod  ! 
Let  every  theme  with  this  be  fraught, 
Let  every  lay,  let  every  thought, 

Flash  out  this  life  of  God 


A  R I A  D  N  E . 


The  demigod  Theseus  having  won  the  love  of  Ariadne,  daughter  of  the  king 

of  Crete,  deserted  her  on  the  isle  of  Naxos.     InMissBremer's  H Family, 

the  blind  girl  is  described  as  singing  "Ariadne  a  Naxos,"  in  which  Ariadne  is 
represented  as  following  Theseus,  climbing  a  high  rock  to  watch  his  departing 
vessel,  and  calling  upon  him  in  her  despairing  anguish. 


DAUGHTER  of  Crete,  how  one  brief  hour, 
E'en  in  thy  young  love's  early  morn, 

Sends  storm  and  darkness  o'er  thy  bower, — 
O  doomed,  O  desolate,  O  lorn  ! 

The  breast  which  pillowed  thy  fair  head 
Rejects  its  burden,  and  the  eye 
Which  looked  its  love  so  earnestly 

Its  last  cold  glance  hath  on  thee  shed  ; 

The  arms  which  were  thy  living  zone, 

Around  thee  closely,  warmly  thrown, 

Shall  others  clasp,  deserted  one  ! 

Yet,  Ariadne,  worthy  thou 

Of  the  dark  fate  which  meets  thee  now, 


ARIADNE.  9 

For  thou  art  grovelling  in  thy  woe  ; 

Arouse  thee !  joy  to  bid  him  go  ! 

For  god  above,  or  man  below, 

Whose  love's  warm  and  impetuous  tide 

Cold  interest  or  selfish  pride 

Can  chill,  or  stay,  or  turn  aside, 

All  too  poor  and  slight  a  thing 

One  shade  o'er  woman's  brow  to  fling 

Of  grief,  regret,  or  fear,  — 
To  cloud  one  morning's  golden  light,  — 
Disturb  the  sweet  dreams  of  one  night,  — 
To  cause  the  soft  flash  of  her  eye 
To  droop  one  moment  mournfully, 

Or  tremble  with  one  tear  ! 

'T  is  thou  shouldst  triumph  ;   thou  art  free 
From  chains  which  bound  thee  for  a  while  ; 

This,  this  the  farewell  meet  for  thee, 
Proud  princess  on  that  lonely  isle  :  — 

"  Go,  — to  thine  Athens  bear  thy  faithless  name  ; 

Go,  base  betrayer  of  a  holy  trust ! 
O,  I  could  bow  me  in  my  utter  shame, 

And  lay  my  crimson  forehead  in  the  dust, 
If  I  had  ever  loved  thee  as  thou  art, 
Folding  mean  falsehood  to  my  high,  true  heart ! 


10 


ARIADNE. 


"  But  thus  I  loved  thee  not ;  before  me  bowed 

A  being  glorious  in  majestic  pride, 
And  breathed  his  love,  and  passionately  vowed 

To  worship  only  me,  his  peerless  bride ; 
And  this  was  thou,  but  crowned,  enrobed,  entwined, 
With  treasures  borrowed  from  my  own  rich  mind ! 

"  I  knew  thee  not  a  creature  of  my  dreams, 

•*• 

And  my  rapt  soul  went  floating  into  thine  ; 
My  love  around  thee  poured  such  halo-beams, 

Hadst  thou  been  true,  had  made  thee  all  divine. 
And  I,  too,  seemed  immortal  in  my  bliss, 
When  my  glad  lip  thrilled  to  thy  burning  kiss  ! 

tc  Shrunken  and  shrivelled  into  Theseus  now 

Thou  stand'st :  behold,  the  gods  have  blown  away 

The  airy  crown  that  glittered  on  thy  brow, — 

The  gorgeous  robes  which  wrapped  thee  for  a  day  ; 

Around  thee  scarce  one  fluttering  fragment  clings,  — 

A  poor,  lean  beggar  in  all  glorious  things ! 

"  Nor  will  I  deign  to  cast  on  thee  my  hate ;  — 
It  were  a  ray  to  tinge  with  splendor  still 

The  dull,  dim  twilight  of  thy  after-fate. 

Thou  shalt  pass  from  me  like  a  dream  of  ill,  — 


ARIADNE.  11 

Thy  name  be  but  a  thing  that,  crouching,  stole, 
Like  a  poor  thief,  all  noiseless  from  my  soul ! 

"  Though  thou  hast  dared  to  steal  the  sacred  flame 
From  out  that  soul's  high  heaven,  she  sets  thee  free, 

Or  only  chains  thee  with  thy  sounding  shame  ; 
Her  memory  is  no  Caucasus  for  thee, 

And  e'en  her  hovering  hate  would  o'er  thee  fling 

Too  much  of  glory  from  its  shadowy  wing ! 

"  Thou  think'st  to  leave  my  life  a  lonely  night. 

Ha  !  it  is  night  all  glorious  with  its  stars ! 
Hopes  yet  unclouded  beaming  forth  their  light, 

And  free  thoughts  rolling  in  their  silver  cars  ! 
And  queenly  pride,  serene,  and  cold,  and  high, 
Moves  the  Diana  of  its  calm,  clear  sky ! 

"  If  poor  and  humbled  thou  believest  me, 
Mole  of  a  demigod,  how  blind  art  thou  ! 

For  I  am  rich  in  scorn  to  pour  on  thee, 

And  gods  shall  bend  from  high  Olympus'  brow 

To  gaze  in  wonder  on  my  lofty  pride, 

Naxos  be  hallowed,  I  be  deified  !  " 
***** 

On  the  tall  cliff  where,  cold  and  pale, 

Thou  walchest  his  receding  sail, 


Tk- 


12  ARIADNE. 

Where  them,  the  daughter  of  a  king, 
Wail'st  like  a  wind-harp's  breaking  string, 
Bend'st  like  a  weak  and  wilted  flower 
Before  a  summer  evening's  shower, — 
There  shouldst  thou  rear  thy  royal  form, 
Like  a  young  oak  amid  the  storm, 

Uncrushed,  unbowed,  unriven  ! 
Let  thy  last  glance  burn  through  the  air, 
And  fall  far  down  upon  him  there, 

Like  lightning-stroke  from  heaven  ! 
There  shouldst  thou  mark  o'er  billowy  crest 

His  white  sail  flutter  and  depart, 
No  wild  fears  surging  at  thy  breast, 

No  vain  hopes  quivering  round  thy  heart ; 
And  this  brief,  burning  prayer  alone 
Leap  from  thy  lips  to  Jove's  high  throne  :  — 
"  Just  Jove  !  thy  wrathful  vengeance  stay, 
And  speed  the  traitor  on  his  way  ! 
Make  vain  the  Siren's  silver  song, 
Let  Nereids  smile  the  wave  along,  — 
O'er  the  wild  waters  send  his  bark 
Like  a  swift  arrow  to  its  mark ! 
Let  whirlwinds  gather  at  his  back, 
And  drive  him  on  his  dastard  track  ! 
Let  thy  red  bolts  behind  him  burn, 
And  blast  him  should  he  dare  to  turn !  " 


13 


P  Y  G  M-A  LION. 


THE  sculptor  paused  before  his  finished  work,  — 
A  wondrous  statue  of  divinest  mould. 
Like  Cytherea's  were  the  rounded  limbs, 
The  hands,  in  whose  soft  fulness,  still  and  deep, 
Like  sleeping  Loves,  the  chiselled  dimples  lay, 
The  hair's  rich  fall,  the  lip's  exquisite  curve. 
But  most  like  Juno's  were  the  brow  of  pride, 
And  lofty  bearing  of  the  matchless  head  ;  — 
While  over  all,  a  mystic  holiness, 
Like  Dian's  purest  smile,  around  her  hung, 
And  hushed  the  idle  gazer,  like  the  air 
Which  haunts  at  night  the  temples  of  the  gods. 

As  stood  the  sculptor  with  still  folded  arms, 
And  viewed  this  shape  of  rarest  Joveliness, 
No  flush  of  triumph  crimsoned  o'er  his  brow, 


14  PYGMALION. 

Nor  grew  his  dark  eye  luminous  with  joy. 

Heart-crushed  with  grief,  worn  with  intense  desires, 

And  wasting  with  a  mad,  consuming  flame, 

He  wildly  gazed,  his  cold  cheek  rivalling 

The  whiteness  of  the  marble  he  had  wrought. 

The  robe's  loose  folds  which  lay  upon  his  breast 

Tumultuous  rose  and  fell,  like  ocean  waves 

Upheaved  by  storms  beneath  ;  and  on  his  brow, 

In  beaded  drops,  the  dew  of  anguish  lay. 

And  thus  he  flung  himself  upon  the  earth, 

And  poured  in  prayer  his  wild  and  burning  words:  — 

"  Great  Jove,  to  thy  high  throne  a  mortal's  prayer 
In  all  the  might  of  anguish  struggles  up  ! 
Thou  hast  beheld  his  work,  as  day  by  day 
It  put  on  form  and  beauty,  till  it  stood 
The  wonder  of  the  glorious  realm  of  art. 
The  sculptor  wrought  not  blindly.     Oft  there  came 
Blest  visions  to  his  soul  of  forms  divine  ;  — 
Of  white-armed  Juno,  in  that  hour  of  love, 
When,  fondling  close  the  cuckoo,  tempest-chilled, 
She  all  unconscious  in  that  form  did  press 
The  mighty  sire  of  the  eternal  gods 
To  her  soft  bosom  ;  —  Aphrodite  fair, 
As  first  she  trod  the  glad,  enamoured  earth, 


PYGMALION.  15 

With    small,   white   feet,   spray-dripping   from    the 

sea  ;  — 

Of  crested  Dian,  when  her  nightly  kiss 
Pressed  down  the  eyelids  of  Endymion, — 
Her  silvery  presence  making  all  the  air 
Of  dewy  Latmos  tremulous  with  love. 

"  And  now  (deem  not  thy  suppliant  impious, 
Our  being's  source,  thou  Father  of  all  life), 
A  wild,  o'ermastering  passion  fires  my  soul, — 
/  madly  love  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought. 
Intoxicate  I  gaze  through  all  the  day, 
And  mocking  visions  haunt  my  couch  at  night ; 
My  heart  is  faint  and  sick  with  longings  vain, 
A  burning  thirst  is  parching  up  my  life. 

u  I  call  upon  her,  and  she  answers  not ! 
The  fond  love-names  I  breathe  into  her  ear 
Are  met  with  maddening  silence  !     When  I  clasp 
Those  slender  fingers  in  my  fevered  hand, 
Their  coldness  chills  me  like  the  touch  of  death ! 
And  while  my  heart's  wild  beatings  shake  my  frame, 
And  pain  my  breast  with  love's  sweet  agony, 
No  faintest  throb  that  shining  bosom  stirs. 


16  PYGMALION. 

"  O,  I  would  have  an  eye  to  gaze  in  mine ! 
An  ear  to  listen  for  my  coming  step,  — 
A  voice  of  love,  with  tones  like  joy's  own  bells, 
To  ring  their  silver  changes  on  mine  ear ! 
A  yielding  hand  to  thrill  within  mine  own, 
And  lips  of  melting  sweetness,  full  and  warm  ! 
Would  change  this  deathless  stone  to  mortal  flesh, 
And  barter  immortality  for  love  ! 

"  If  voice  of  earth,  in  wildest  prayer,  may  reach 
To  godhood,  throned  amid  the  purple  clouds, 
To  animate  this  cold  and  pulseless  stone 
Grant  thou  one  breath  of  that  immortal  air 
Which  feedeth  human  life  from  age  to  age, 
And  floateth  round  Olympus !  —  Hear,  O  Jove  ! 

"  And  so  this  form  may  shrine  a  soul  of  light, 
Whose  starry  radiance  shall  unseal  these  eyes, 
Send  down  the  sky's  blue  deeps,  O  sire  divine, 
One  faintest  gleam  of  that  benignant  smile 
Which  glows  upon  the  faces  of  the  gods, 
And  lights  all  heaven  !  —  Hear,  mighty  Jove  !  " 

He  stayed  his  prayer,  and  on  his  statue  gazed. 
Behold,  a  gentle  heaving  stirred  its  breast ! 


PYGMALION.  17 

O'er  all  the  form  a  flush  of  rose-light  passed, 
Along  the  limbs  the  azure  arteries  throbbed, 
A  golden  lustre  settled  on  the  head, 
And  gleamed  amid  the  mazes  of  the  hair  ; 
The  rounded  cheek  grew  vivid  with  a  blush, 
Ambrosial  breathings  cleft  the  curved  lips, 
And  softly  through  the  arched  nostril  stole  ; 
Slow  rose  the  silken-fringed  lids,  and  eyes 
Like  violets  wet  with  dew  drank  in  the  light ! 

Moveless  she  stood,  until  her  wandering  glance 
Upon  the  rapt  face  of  the  sculptor  fell ; 
Bewildered  and  abashed,  it  sank  beneath 
The  burning  gaze  of  his  adoring  eyes. 
And  then  there  ran  through  all  her  trembling  frame 
A  strange,  sweet  thrill  of  blissful  consciousness, 
Life's  wildest  joy,  in  one  delicious  tide, 
Poured  through  the  channels  of  her  new-born  heart, 
And  love's  first  sigh  rose  quivering  from  her  breast. 

She    turned,  and,   smiling,   bent   her  toward   the 

youth, 

And  blushed  love's  dawn  upon  him  as  he  knelt. 
He  rose,  sprang  forward  with  a  passionate  cry, 
And  joyously  outstretched  his  waiting  arms;  — 


18  PYGMALION. 

And  lo !  the  form  he  sculptured  from  the  stone, 
Instinct  with  life,  and  radiant  with  soul, 
A  breathing  shape  of  beauty,  soft  and  warm, 
Of  mortal  womanhood,  all  smiles  and  tears, 
In  love's  sweet  trance  upon  his  bosom  lay. 


19 


THE   HORSEBACK  RIDE. 


WHEN  troubled  in  spirit,  when  weary  of  life, 

When  I  faint  'neath  its  burdens,  and  shrink  from  its  strife, 

When  its  fruits,  turned  to  ashes,  are  mocking  my  taste, 

And  its  fairest  scene  seems  but  a  desolate  waste, 

Then  come  ye  not  near  me,  my  sad  heart  to  cheer, 

With  friendship's  soft  accents,  or  sympathy's  tear. 

No  pity  I  ask,  and  no  counsel  I  need, 

But  bring  me,  O,  bring  me,  my  gallant  young  steed, 

With  his  high  arched  neck,  and  his  nostril  spread  wide, 

His  eye  full  of  fire,  and  his  step  full  of  pride  ! 

As  I  spring  to  his  back,  as  I  seize  the  strong  rein, 

The  strength  to  my  spirit  returneth  again  ! 

The  bonds  are  all  broken  that  fettered  my  mind, 

And  my  cares  borne  away  on  the  wings  of  the  wind  ; 

My  pride  lifts  its  head,  for  a  season  bowed  down, 

And  the  queen  in  my  nature  now  puts  on  her  crown  ! 


20  THE    HORSEBACK    RIDE. 

Now  we  're  off,  —  like  the  winds  to  the  plains  whence 

they  came, 

And  the  rapture  of  motion  is  thrilling  my  frame  ! 
On,  on  speeds  my  courser,  scarce  printing  the  sod, 
Scarce  crushing  a  daisy  to  mark  where  he  trod  ! 
On,  on  like  a  deer,  when  the  hound's  early  bay 
Awakes  the  wild  echoes,  away,  and  away  ! 
Still  faster,  still  farther,  he  leaps  at  my  cheer, 
Till  the  rush  of  the  startled  air  whirs  in  my  ear  ! 
Now  'long  a  clear  rivulet  lieth  his  track,  — 
See  his  glancing  hoofs  tossing  the  white  pebbles  back ! 
Now  a  glen,  dark  as  midnight,  —  what  matter?  —  we  '11 

down, 

Though  shadows  are  round  us,  and  rocks  o'er  us  frown  ; 
The  thick  branches  shake,  as  we  're  hurrying  through, 
And  deck  us  with  spangles  of  silvery  dew ! 

What  a  wild  thought  of  triumph,  that  this  girlish  hand 
Such  a  steed  in  the  might  of  his  strength  may  command  ! 
What  a  glorious  creature  !     Ah  !  glance  at  him  now, 
As  I  check  him  awhile  on  this  green  hillock's  brow ; 
How  he  tosses  his  mane,  with  a  shrill,  joyous  neigh, 
And  paws  the  firm  earth  in  his  proud,  stately  play ! 
Hurrah  !  off  again,  dashing  on  as  in  ire, 
Till  the  long,  flinty  pathway  is  flashing  with  fire  ! 


THE    HORSEBACK    RIDE.  21 

Ho  !  a  ditch  !  —  Shall  we  pause  ?     No  ;  the  bold  leap 

we  dare, 

Like  a  swift-winged  arrow  we  rush  through  the  air! 
O,  not  all  the  pleasures  that  poets  may  praise, 
Not  the  wildering  waltz  in  the  ball-room's  blaze, 
Nor  the  chivalrous  joust,  nor  the  daring  race, 
Nor  the  swift  regatta,  nor  merry  chase, 
Nor  the  sail,  high  heaving  waters  o'er, 
Nor  the  rural  dance  on  the  moonlight  shore, 
Can  the  wild  and  thrilling  joy  exceed 
Of  a  fearless  leap  on  a  fiery  steed ! 


22 


FANNY    FORESTER. 


A  THOUSAND  sweet  ties  bind  her  here, — 

O  friend  !   thy  fears  are  vain  ! 
The  blessed  angels  will  not  break 

So  soon  this  golden  chain  ; 
And  God,  our  God,  who  loveth  her, 

Shall  breathe  on  her  again  ! 

The  languor  of  her  step  shall  yet 

With  winter  snows  depart ; 
Her  feet  shall  spring  o'er  carpets  wrought 

By  Flora's  loving  art, 
And  keep  time  to  the  joyous  beat 

Of  her  exulting  heart ! 

Spring  flowers,  —  they  must,  to  one  like  her, 
Bring  life  in  their  perfume  ; 


FANNY    FORESTER.  23 

Though  lilies  mind  us  of  the  young, 

Pale  bending  to  the  tomb, 
She  shall  tread  among  the  violets 

Before  the  lilies  bloom  ! 

Yes,  when  the  summer  roses  blush, 
Her  cheek  shall  catch  their  glow  ; 

And  when  the  summer  birds  return, 
Her  tones,  no  longer  low, 

Shall,  like  their  strains,  on  raptured  ears 
In  waves  of  music  flow. 

Our  souls'  arms  are  around  her  thrown  ! 

She  must  not  pass  away 
Now,  when,  too  humble  for  the  proud, 

Too  lonely  for  the  gay, 
The  altar  of  sweet  Poesy 

Is  falling  to  decay  ! 

O,  there  may  we  behold  her  yet 

In  her  young  beauty  bow  ! 
There  may  we  hear  her  glad  lip  breathe 

Her  consecration  vow, 
Earth's  warm  life  lighting  up  her  eye, — 

Its  glory  on  her  brow  ! 


24  FANNY    FORESTER. 

There  long  a  priestess  may  she  serve, 
With  vestments  pure  and  fair, 

There  offer  up  her  winged  dreams, 
Young  doves  from  heaven's  own  air, 

And  pour  the  rich  wine  of  her  soul 
As  a  libation  there  ! 


25 


THE    RESTORED. 


OUR  Father,  when  our  loved  one  lay 

With  her  languid  eyes  half  closed, 
When  the  darkening  shadow  of  the  grave 

On  her  sunny  brow  reposed, 
'Mid  our  woe  thou  didst  send  thy  spirit  down 

To  renew  her  failing  breath, 
And  'mid  our  joy  we  bless  Thee  now, 

O  thou  God  of  life  and  death  ! 

Ah,  when  she  turned  from  the  shadowy  vale, 

From  the  night  that  gloomed  before  her, 
A  new  life  burst,  like  a  tropical  day, 

In  surpassing  glory,  o'er  her  ! 
The  stars  pour  down  a  purer  light, 

The  sunbeams  richer  fall,    ' 
And  sweeter  far  through  the  arch  of  heaven 

Sounds  the  wild-bird's  early  call. 


26  THE    RESTORED. 

And  each  low  wind  that  murmurs  by, 

Or  lingers  on  her  brow, 
Seems  a  whisper  from  the  realm  of  peace, 

The  kiss  of  angels  now  ; 
And  flowers  are  far  more  blessed  things,  — 

The  lowliest  that  bloom 
Bear  tracings  of  the  loving  hand 

That  raised  her  from  the  tomb. 

Though  she  seemeth  yet,  with  her  noiseless  step, 

Some  fair  and  fleeting  shade, 
And  her  voice  hath  the  sound  of  a  silver  brook, 

Low  rippling  down  the  glade  ;  — 
Though  faint  the  flush  that  sometimes  comes 

Her  glowing  dreams  to  speak, 
As  the  shadow  of  a  rose-leaf  cast 

On  a  sculptured  Psyche's  cheek  ;  — 

Life,  life,  is  thrilling  through  her  veins  ! 

And  her  heart,  these  warm  spring  hours, 
Waked  to  new  raptures  and  new  loves, 

Seems  beating  under  flowers, 
Like  a  pulse  in  the  brow  of  a  young  May  Queen, 

Just  crowned  in  her  morning  bowers. 


THE    RESTORED.  27 

That  from  her  door  to  the  place  of  graves 

The  path  is  yet  untrod,  — 
That  we  have  not  pressed  on  her  warm  young  breast 

The  icy  burial  sod,  — 
That  she  sleepeth,  and  waketh,  and  is  not  dead, 

We  bless  thee,  O  our  God  ! 


28 


DREAMS. 


THERE  was  a  season  when  I  loved 
The  calm  and  holy  night, — 

When,  like  yon  silvery  evening  star, 
Just  trembling  on  our  sight, 

My  spirit  through  its  heaven  of  dreams 
Went  floating  forth  in  light. 

Night  is  the  time  when  Nature  seems 

God's  silent  worshipper, 
And  ever  with  a  chastened  heart, 

In  unison  with  her, 
I  laid  me  on  my  peaceful  couch, 

The  day's  dull  cares  resigned, 
And  let  my  thoughts  fold  up  like  flowers, 

In  the  twilight  of  the  mind. 


DREAMS.  29 

Fast  round  me  closed  the  shades  of  sleep  ; 

Then  burst  upon  my  sight 
Visions  of  glory  and  of  love, 

The  stars  of  slumber's  night ! 
Dreams,  wondrous  dreams,  that  far  around 

Did  such  rich  radiance  fling, 
As  the  sudden  first  unfurling 

Of  a  young  angel's  wing. 
Then  sometimes  blessed  beings  came, 

Parting  the  midnight  skies, 
And  bore  me  to  their  shining  homes, 

The  bovvers  of  Paradise  ; 
I  felt  my  worn,  world-wearied  soul 

Bathed  in  divine  repose, 
My  earth-chilled  heart,  in  the  airs  of  heaven, 

Unfolding  as  a  rose. 

Nor  were  my  dreams  celestial  all, 

For  oft  along  my  way 
Clustered  the  scenes  and  joys  of  home, 

The  loves  of  every  day  ; 
Soft  after  angel-music  still 

The  voices  round  my  hearth,  — 
Sweet  after  Paradisean  flowers 

The  violets  of  earth. 


30  DREAMS. 

But  now  I  dread  the  night,  —  it  holds 

Within  its  weary  bounds 
Strife,  griefs  and  fears,  red  battle-fields, 

And  spectre-haunted  grounds ! 

One  night  there  sounded  through  my  dreams 

A  trumpet's  stirring  peal, 
And  then  methought  I  went  forth  armed, 

And  clad  in  glittering  steel, 
And  sprang  upon  a  battle  steed, 

And  led  a  warrior  band, 
And  we  swept,  a  flood  of  fire  and  death, 

Victorious  through  the  land  ! 
O,  what  wild  rapture  't  was  to  mark 

My  serried  ranks  advance, 
And  see  amid  the  foe  go  down 

Banner  and  plume  and  lance  ! 
The  living  trampled  o'er  the  dead,  — 

The  fallen,  line  on  line, 
Were  crushed  like  grapes  at  vintage-time, 

And  blood  was  poured  like  wine  ! 
My  sword  was  dripping  to  its  hilt, 

And  this  small,  girlish  hand, 
Planted  the  banner,  lit  the  torch, 
And  waved  the  stern  command. 


DREAMS.  31 

How  swelled  and  burned  within  my  heart 

Fierce  hate  and  fiery  pride,  — 
My  very  soul  rode  like  a  bark 

On  the  battle's  stormy  tide  ! 

My  pitying  and  all  woman's  soul ! 

O,  no,  it  was  not  mine  ! 
Perchance  mine  slumbered,  or  had  left 

Awhile  its  earthly  shrine  ; 
So  the  spirit  of  a  Joan  d'Arc 

Stole  in  my  sleeping  frame, 
And  wrote  her  history  on  my  heart, 

In  words  of  blood  and  flame. 

My  dead  are  with  me  in  my  dreams, 

Rise  from  their  still,  lone  home, — 
But  are  they  as  I  loved  them  here  ? 

O  Heaven,  't  is  thus  they  come  ! 
Silent  and  cold,  — the  pulseless  form 

In  burial  garments  dressed, 
The  pale  hands  holding  burial  flowers, 

Close  folded  on  the  breast ! 

My  living,— they  in  whose  tried  hearts 
My  wild,  impassioned  love 


32  DREAMS. 

Foldeth  its  wings  contentedly, 

And  nestles  as  a  dove,  — 
They  come,  they  hold  me  in  their  arms ; 

My  heart,  with  joy  oppressed, 
Seems  panting  'neath  its  blessed  weight, 

And  swooning  in  my  breast ; 
My  eyes  look  up  through  tears  of  bliss, 

Like  flowers  through  dews  of  even, 
There  's  a  painful  fulness  in  my  lips, 

Till  the  kiss  of  love  is  given  ;  — 
When,  sudden,  their  fresh  glowing  lips 

Are  colorless  and  cold, 
And  an  icy,  shrouded  corse  is  all 

My  shuddering  arms  enfold  ! 

Have  I  my  guardian  angels  grieved, 

That  they  have  taken  flight  ? 
Or  frown'st  thou  on  me,  O  my  God, 

In  the  visions  of  the  night  ? 
Yet  with  a  child's  fond  faith  I  rest 

Still  on  thy  fatherhood,  — 
Speak  peace  unto  my  troubled  dreams, 

Thou  merciful  and  good  ! 
And,  O,  if  cares  and  griefs  must  come, 

Arid  throng  my  humble  way, 


DREAMS.  33 

Then  let  me,  strengthened  and  refreshed, 

Strive  with  them  in  the  day, 
This  glorious  world  which  thou  hast  made 

Spread  out  in  bloom  before  me, 
Thy  blessed  sunshine  on  my  path, 

Thy  radiant  skies  hung  o'er  me. 
But  when,  like  ghosts  of  the  sun's  lost  rays, 

Come  down  the  moonbeams  pale, 
And  the  dark  earth  lies  like  an  Eastern  bride 

Beneath  her  silvery  veil, 
Then  let  the  night,  with  its  silence  deep, 

Its  dews  and  its  starry  gleams, 
Be  peace,  and  rest,  and  love  !  — 0  God, 
Smile  on  me  in  my  dreams ! 


34 


THE    WIFE'S    APPEAL. 


I  'M  thinking,  Charles,  't  is  just  a  year, 

Or  will  be,  very  soon, 
Since  first  you  told  me  of  your  love, 

One  glorious  day  in  June. 

All  nature  seemed  to  share  our  bliss, — 
The  skies  hung  warm  above, 

The  winds  from  opening  roses  bore 
The  very  breath  of  love  ! 

We  sought  the  still,  deep  forest  shades, 

Within  whose  leafy  gloom 
Few  ardent  sunbeams  stole  to  kiss 

The  young  buds  into  bloom  ; 


35 


The  birds  caught  up  our  tones  of  love, 

In  songs  not  half  so  sweet, 
And  earth's  green  carpet,  violet-flowered, 

It  scarcely  felt  our  feet ! 

Ah,  apropos  of  carpets,  Charles, 

I  looked  at  some  to-day, 
Which  you  will  purchase,  —  won't  you,  dear, 

Before  our  next  soiree  ? 

And  then  remember  you  how  lost 

In  love's  delicious  dream, 
We  long  stood  silently  beside 

A  gently  gliding  stream  ? 

'T  was  Nature's  mirror,  —  when  your  gaze 

No  longer  I  could  bear, 
I  modestly  cast  down  my  eyes, 

Yet  but  to  meet  it  there  ! 

And  apropos  of  mirrors,  love, 

The  dear  gift  of  your  mother 
Is  quite  old-fashioned,  —  and  to-day 

I  ordered  home  another. 


36  THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 

Ah,  well  do  I  remember,  Charles, 

When  first  your  arm  stole  round  me,— 

You  little  dreamed  how  long  your  soul 
In  golden  chains  had  bound  me  ! 

And  apropos  of  chains,  my  own, 

At  Allen's  shop  last  week 
I  saw  the  sweetest  love,  so  rich, 

So  tasteful  and  unique  ! 

The  workmanship  is  most  superb, 
The  gold  most  fine  and  pure,  — 

I  quite  long,  Charles,  to  see  that  chain 
Suspend  your  miniature  ! 

I  've  heard  sad  news  while  you  were  out, 
My  nerves  are  much  affected,  — 

You  know  the  navy  officer 
I  once  for  you  rejected  ; 

Driven  to  despair  by  your  success, 
Made  desperate  by  my  scorn, 

He  went  to  sea,  —  and  has  been  lost 
In  passing  round  Cape  Horn  ! 


THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL.  37 

Ah,  apropos  of  capes,  my  love, 

I  saw  one  in  Broadway, 
Of  lace  as  fine  as  though  't  were  wove 

Of  moonlight,  by  a  fay ! 

You  '11  purchase  the  exquisite  thing  ? 

'T  will  suit  your  taste  completely  ; 
Above  the  heart  that  loves  you,  Charles, 

'T  will  rise  and  fall  so  sweetly  ! 


38 


THE   STORY  OF  A  LIFE 


THE  world  smiled  on  me  at  my  birth,  — 

Beneath  a  rose-hued  sky, 
Rocked  on  the  summer  waves  of  love, 

My  childhood  glided  by. 

My  boyhood  passed  in  lofty  dreams, 

In  longings  for  the  strife, 
The  glory,  and  the  pageantry, 

The  tournament  of  life. 

At  manhood's  age,  a  being  proud 

And  passionate,  I  stood ; 
Gold,  lands,  were  mine,  and  through  my  veins 

Went  leaping  princely  blood. 


THE    STORY    OF   A   LIFE.  39 

Then  Pleasure  held  her  goblet  high, 

And  called  on  me  to  drain 
The  glowing  wine  quaffed  by  the  gods, 

Till  madness  fired  my  brain ; 

She  mocked  and  tortured  by  delay,  — 

Then,  at  my  frenzied  call, 
She  offered  to  my  burning  lip 

The  cup,  and  it  was  gall. 

I  won  a  friend  by  generous  deeds,  — 

One  with  an  open  brow  ; 
He  bound  his  very  life  to  mine 

With  many  a  holy  vow. 

Then  fell  the  bolt,  —  I  was  betrayed  ! 

By  cool,  insidious  art,  — 
By  words  that,  like  barbed  arrows,  still 

Are  quivering  in  my  heart. 

At  last  unto  my  bosom  came, 

In  gentlest  guise,  young  Love  ; 
It  crept  into  its  resting-place, 

A  sweet  and  quiet  dove. 


40  THE    STORY    OF    A    LIFE. 

I  warmed  it  in  my  inmost  heart, 

Closed  from  the  world's  chill  air  ;  — 

0,  't  was  a  rapture  caught  from  heaven 
To  feel  it  nestling  there  ! 

But  ah  !  one  morn,  from  visions  blest, 

I  wakened  with  a  moan  ; 
There  was  a  vulture  at  my  breast, 

And  that  young  dove  had  flown  ! 

Then  Fame  held  forth  her  laurel  crown, 
From  her  proud  height  afar ; 

I  longed  for  it,  as  does  a  child 
At  evening  for  a  star. 

I  toiled,  I  suffered,  —  humble  joys 

I  careless  flung  aside, 
Saw  peace  take  wing,  and  in  the  dust 

Bow  down  my  manly  pride. 

At  last,  at  last,  it  bound  my  brow, 
That  green  immortal  wreath  ! 

Exulting,  glorying,  I  stood, 
Defying  time  and  death  ! 


THE    STORY    OF    A    LIFE.  41 

Yet  soon  I  would  have  given  worlds 

To  fling  it  off  again, 
For  thorns  were  hid  among  the  leaves, 

That  pierced  me  to  the  brain ! 

Now  is  my  life  a  storm-wrecked  bark, 

Dashed  by  time's  surges  high 
Upon  a  bare,  cold  island  rock, 

Beneath  a  northern  sky. 

There,  in  that  realm  where  hearts  congeal, 

The  spirit's  frozen  zone, 
A  joyless,  cheerless,  loveless  age, 

I  stand  alone,  —  alone. 


42 


RECONCILIATION. 


YES,  all  is  well.     The  cloud  hath  passed  away 
That  hung  above  our  friendship's  path  awhile  ; 

For  truth  hath  pierced  it  with  a  golden  ray, 
And  love's  own  sunshine  bathed  it  in  a  smile. 

Yes,  all  is  well,  my  brother.     See,  I  place 
My  hand  upon  my  late  tumultuous  heart, 

And  its  soft  pulses  speak  the  calm  of  peace, 
Which  sweetest  is  just  after  storms  depart. 

Now  let  our  friendship  flow,  like  gentle  river, 
With  no  dark  stream  its  silver  waves  to  stain  ; 

And,  O,  let  no  cold  wintry  iceberg  ever 
Come  floating  down  its  summer  tide  again  ! 


RECONCILIATION.  43 

Let  naught  disturb  our  harmony  of  soul, 

Let  nothing  come  between  thy  heart  and  mine, 

But  let  the  circling  years,  as  on  they  roll, 
Still  bring  us  more  of  sympathy  divine. 

We  are  but  one  remove  from  heavenly  birth, — 
Let  heavenly  truth  be  on  each  lip  and  brow ; 

Let  us  be  free,  —  let  not  the  dust  of  earth 

Weigh  down  the  white  wings  of  our  spirits  now. 

So  when  we  tread  Eternity's  dim  shore 

Our  souls  may  know  each  other,  and  rejoice 

That  no  disguise  in  earthly  life  they  wore, 
And  spirit  voice  may  answer  spirit  voice  ! 


44 


PUTNAM. 


LET  the  haughty  smile,  the  low  defame, 
The  heartless  worldling  mock ; 

I  thank  my  God  my  fathers  came 
Of  the  good  old  Pilgrim  stock  ! 

I  thank  my  God,  through  this  heart  bounds 

Blood  from  that  hero  band  ; 
That  my  sire  first  opened  his  young  eyes 

Where  Northern  plains  expand  ; 
That  my  mother's  first  breath  was  the  air 

Of  Putnam's  glorious  land  ! 

Our  own  brave  Putnam  !  worthy  thou 
Such  rare  and  knightly  praise 

As  warrior  bards  of  a  warrior  race 
Wove  in  their  triumph-lays, 

And  sang  aloud  to  their  sounding  harps, 
In  the  old  heroic  days. 


PUTNAM.  45 

When  Freedom  first  her  standard  reared, 

Her  sword  first  girded  on,  — 
When  her  rally  first  from  Concord  rang, 

And  pealed  from  Lexington, — 
Thou  heard'st  with  triumph  in  thine  eye, 

And  proud,  uplifted  brow, 
And,  like  the  patriot  Roman,  went 

To  glory  from  the  plough  ! 

Thy  voice  rang  like  a  clarion  out 

On  Bunker's  trampled  height ; 
Thy  sword  gleamed  like  a  meteor  through 

The  thick  cloud  of  the  fight ; 
Where  cannon  boomed,  where  bayonets  clashed, 

There  was  thy  fiery  way, 
And  thy  blows  came  down,  a  storm  of  death, 

On  the  foe  that  fearful  day. 

Thy  daring  ride  adown  the  rocks,  — 

Have  chivalry's  bold  days 
A  deed  of  wilder  bravery 

In  all  their  stirring  lays  ? 
The  veteran  loves  to  tell  the  tale, 

When  night  enwraps  the  earth, 
And  youthful  forms  all  eager  crowd 

Around  the  household  hearth. 


46  PUTNAM. 

The  listeners,  —  how,  as  with  hushed  breath 

They  drink  in  every  word, 
Is  the  martial  spirit  through  their  veins 

Like  a  stream  of  lightning  poured  ! 
How  eye  meets  eye  in  a  kindred  blaze, 

Like  the  flash  of  sword  on  sword ! 

The  Briton,  on  the  hill's  high  brow, 
With  levelled  arms,  they  see  ; 

And  thou  below,  —  thy  gray  war-steed 
Dashing  on  gallantly. 

A  shout  springs  to  their  lips,  their  souls 
Go  leaping  down  with  thee ! 

Like  Wolfe,  upon  the  crimsoned  turf 

It  was  not  thine  to  lie, 
The  cannon's  roar  in  thy  dying  ear, 

The  strife  in  thy  dying  eye  ; 
With  thy  country's  banner  o'er  thy  head, 

Unrolling  broad  and  free, 
And  with  thy  passing  spirit  thrilled 

By  shouts  of  "  Victory !  " 

But  by  the  hands  of  Peace  and  Love 
Thy  white  death-couch  was  spread ; 


PUTNAM.  47 

And  Hope  unfurled  her  starry  wing 
In  glory  o'er  thy  head. 

In  the  sweet  May-time,  when  flowers  awoke, 

And  earth  was  very  fair, 
To  the  bending  heaven  the  soldier's  soul 

Uprose  on  the  breath  of  prayer, 
And  the  shout  of  "  Victory  !  "  —  here  unheard  — 

Was  the  soldier's  welcome  there. 


48 


INVOCATION  TO   MOTHER   EARTH. 


O  EARTH  !  thy  face  hath  not  the  grace 

That  smiling  Heaven  did  bless, 
When  thou  wert  "  good,"  and  blushing  stood 

In  thy  young  loveliness  ; 
And  mother  dear,  the  smile  and  tear 

In  thee  are  strangely  met ; 
Thy  joy  and  woe  together  flow,  — 

But,  ah,  we  love  thee  yet ! 

Thou  still  art  fair,  when  morn's  fresh  air 

Thrills  with  the  lark's  sweet  song  ; 
When  Nature  seems  to  wake  from  dreams, 

And  laugh  and  dance  along  ; 
Thou  'rt  fair  at  day,  when  clouds  all  gray 

Fade  into  glorious  blue  ; 
When  sunny  hours  fly  o'er  the  flowers, 

And  kiss  away  the  dew. 


INVOCATION    TO    MOTHER    EARTH.  49 

Thou  'rt  fair  at  eve,  when  skies  receive 

The  last  smiles  of  the  sun  ; 
When  through  the  shades  that  twilight  spreads 

The  stars  peep,  one  by  one  ; 
Thou  'rt  fair  at  night,  when  full  starlight 

Streams  down  upon  the  sod  ; 
When  moonlight  pale,  on  hill  and  dale, 

Rests  like  the  smile  of  God. 

And  thou  art  grand  where  lakes  expand, 

And  mighty  rivers  roll ; 
Where  ocean  proud,  with  threatenings  loud, 

Mocketh  at  man's  control ; 
And  grand  thou  art  when  lightnings  dart, 

And  gleam  athwart  thy  sky  ; 
When  thunders  peal,  and  forests  reel, 

And  storms  go  sweeping  by. 

We  bless  thee  now,  for  gifts  which  thou 

Hast  freely  on  us  shed  ; 
For  dew  and  showers,  and  beauteous  flowers, 

And  blue  skies  overhead  ; 
For  morn's  perfume,  and  mid-day's  bloom. 

And  evening's  hour  of  mirth ; 

4 


50  INVOCATION    TO     MOTHER    EARTH. 

For  glorious  night,  for  all  things  bright, 
We  bless  thee,  Mother  Earth  ! 

But  when  long  years  of  care  and  tears 

Have  come  and  passed  away, 
The  time  may  be  when  sadly  we 

Shall  turn  to  thee,  and  say,  — 
"  We  are  worn  with  life,  its  toils  and  strife, 

We  long,  we  pine,  for  rest ; 
We  come,  we  come,  all  wearied,  home,  — 

Room,  Mother,  in  thy  breast ! " 


51 


SPIRIT    LONGINGS. 


I  LOOK  upon  life's  glorious  things, 
The  deathless  themes  of  song, 

The  grand,  the  proud,  the  beautiful, 
The  wild,  the  free,  the  strong, 

And  wish  that  I  might  take  a  part 
Of  what  to  them  belong. 

Behold,  the  fearless  Ship  goes  forth, 

Where  ocean  billows  sweep  ; 
Proud  as  a  steed,  swift  as  a  bird, 

She  dashes  through  the  deep  ! 
Her  drapery  of  snowy  sail 

Around  her  stately  form, — 
Majestic  Juno  in  the  calm, 

Bellona  in  the  storm  ! 


52  SPIRIT    LONGINGS. 

Thus  may  I,  on  the  sea  of  life, 
Launch  forth  all  strong  and  brave, 

Wait  through  the  lonely,  tedious  calm, 
And  breast  the  stormy  wave. 

Bold  Eagle,  gazer  on  the  sun, 

Child  of  the  upper  air  ! 
In  low,  unworthy  strifes  and  sports 

He  deigneth  not  to  share  : 
Behold  him  in  a  mountain  land, 

When  storm-clouds  roll  on  hip-h, 

O      * 

Upon  the  gathering  tempest  look, 

With  calm,  uncowering  eye  ! 
Loud  thunders  peal  and  crash  around  ; 

He  knoweth  no  affright, 
But  spreads  his  wing  upon  the  blast, 

And  speeds  his  upward  flight ! 
Red  lightnings  blaze  along  his  path, 

And  play  around  his  form ; 
He  joys,  he  glories,  he  exults, 

In  striving  with  the  storm ! 

Thus  may  my  nature  bear  through  life, 
Whatever  may  betide, 


SPIRIT    LONGINGS.  53 

A  scorn  of  all  things  low  and  mean, 

A  stern  and  lofty  pride  ; 
Thus  may  a  dauntless,  daring  strength 

Be  given  unto  my  soul ; 
Thus,  thus  through  tempests  may  it  sweep 

On,  upward  to  its  goal ! 

The  bright,  the  beautiful,  the  glad, 

The  swift  and  silvery  River  ! 
Dim  woods,  dark  rocks,  along  it  frown, 

But  it  laugheth  on  for  ever ! 

Thus  may  my  heart,  a  joyous  thing, 

Go  laughing  o'er  the  earth, 
And  nothing  sadden,  nothing  awe, 

Its  careless,  childlike  mirth. 

The  blue,  the  broad,  the  deep,  the  strong, 

The  wild,  unfettered  Sea  ! 
Methinks  he  might  have  taught  the  world 

That  God  had  made  it  free. 
He  lies  at  rest ;  upon  his  breast 

The  stars  are  mirrored  bright ; 
He  sees  move  through  the  courts  of  heaven 

The  lovely  queen  of  night, 


54  SPIRIT    LONGINGS. 

And  his  strong  pulses  bound  to  meet 

Her  sweet  smile's  placid  light ! 
Though  worlds,  though  all  created  things 

Should  threaten  and  command, 
He  lies  at  rest.     But  see,  the  winds 

Are  loosed  from  God's  right  hand, 
And  the  sea-bird  screameth  with  affright, 

And  the  seaman  steers  to  land  ! 

Thus  may  this  soul  of  mine  be  free, 

Thus  mirror  things  above  ; 
Thus  may  its  soft  tides  ever  swell, 

Beneath  the  smile  of  love  ; 
Thus  may  the  will  of  God  alone 

Move  its  unfathomed  deep, 
And  wake  its  rushing,  flashing  thoughts 

From  their  inglorious  sleep. 

A  gentle  Star,  lit  up  in  heaven, 

And  meekly  beaming  there, 
Its  quiet  light  comes  trembling  down 

The  sweet  and  silent  air ; 
Within  the  mist,  behind  the  cloud, 

Its  living  rays  still  shine, 
Like  sacred  fires  'mid  incense-wreaths 

That  circle  round  the  shrine. 


SPIRIT    LONGINGS.  55 

Thus  may  my  life  shine  forth  a  star, 

On  all  who  walk  in  night, 
Unquenched  by  mists,  undimmed  by  clouds, 

Till  lost  in  morn's  full  light. 

0  spirit,  be  no  more  content 
To  dream,  aspire,  and  long ! 

Grasp  thou  the  grand,  the  beautiful, 
The  proud,  the  free,  the  strong  ! 

1  rouse  !  no  more  for  far-off  good, 

With  folded  hands,  I  pine  ; 
I  seek,  I  yet  will  find,  the  springs 

To  quench  this  thirst  divine  ! 
And  these,  all  these  I  covet  now, 

God  helping,  shall  be  mine  ! 


56 


TO  A  BEREAVED  FRIEND. 


THY  Mary  hath  gone  from  thee  ;  —  thou  hast  folded 
For  the  last  time  her  dear  form  to  thy  breast, 

And  on  those  lips,  in  softest  beauty  moulded, 
The  last,  last  kiss  of  yearning  love  hast  pressed. 

She  hath  gone  from  thee  ;  —  thou  hast  seen  her  lying 
Gasping  away  the  life  so  dear  to  thee  ; 

And  thou  didst  hold  her  hand  while  she  was  dying, 
Till  the  long  sleep  stole  o'er  her  tranquilly  ;  — 

One  after  one  didst  feel  thy  heart-strings  breaking, 
As  each  faint  pulse  grew  fainter  in  that  hand  ; 

Though  thou  didst  know  that  she  was  only  taking 
Her  flight  before  thee  to  the  better  land. 


TO    A    BEREAVED    FRIEND.  57 

It  was  the  hand  in  love's  devotion  given, 

When  first  she  stood  thy  young  and  trustful  bride,  — 
The  hand  which  led  thy  children  on  to  heaven, — 

'T  was  hers  who  lived,  joyed,  suffered  by  thy  side. 

Yet  there  were  stars  in  holy  brightness  shining 
Down  on  the  midnight  path  which  thou  hast  trod  ; 

Didst  thou  not  see  her  meekly  earth  resigning, 
And  leaning  on  the  bosom  of  her  God  ? 

She  hath  not  left  thee  wholly  broken-hearted  ;  — 
Was  it  not  thine  to  watch  her  latest  breath  ? 

To  print  upon  her  lips,  ere  she  departed, 

The  seal  of  love,  the  good-night  kiss  of  death  ? 

And  thou  didst  see  no  stranger  hand  composing 
Her  fair  limbs  in  the  attitude  of  sleep  ; 

Severing  her  tresses,  and  the  fringed  lids  closing 

O'er  those  dark  eyes  which  now  have  ceased  to  weep. 

And  though  thy  Mary  walks  in  highest  heaven, 
Ye  were  knit  soul  to  soul,  as  heart  to  heart ; 

The  love  to  light  your  earthly  pathway  given 
Was  of  that  heaven  to  which  she  rose  a  part. 


58 


TO   A    BEREAVED    FRIEND. 


She  placed  her  earthly  being  in  thy  keeping ; 

When  thou  art  anguished,  can  she  be  at  rest  ? 
Will  she  not  feel  the  tears  which  thou  art  weeping, 

Like  swift  rain  falling  on  her  angel  breast  ? 

And  will  she  not,  while  now  "the  new  song"  learning, 
Amid  its  pauses  hear  thy  mournful  sighs  ? 

Will  she  not  feel  a  vain  and  painful  yearning 
To  bear  thee  peace  and  comfort  from  the  skies  ? 

Then  mourn  no  more,  —  't  will  sadden  her  in  glory 
To  know  how  ceaselessly  flow  forth  thy  tears  ; 

And  she  will  tell  the  angels  the  sad  story, 

How  she  hath  left  thee  in  thy  night  of  years,  — 

A  lone,  despairing,  broken-hearted  mourner, 
For  one  dear  presence  evermore  to  pine  ; 

And  they  will  grieve  that  they  should  thus  have  borne  her, 
Even  to  heaven,  from  such  a  love  as  thine. 


59 


I  NEVER   WILL  GROW   OLD. 


0,  NO,  I  never  will  grow  old ; 

Though  years  on  years  roll  by, 
And  silver  o'er  my  dark  brown  hair, 

And  dim  my  laughing  eye, 

They  shall  not  shrivel  up  my  sowZ, 

Nor  dim  the  glance  of  love 
My  heart  casts  on  this  world  of  ours, 

And  lifts  to  that  above ! 

Now,  with  a  passion  for  those  haunts 
Where  wild,  free  nature  reigns, 

With  life's  tide  leaping  through  my  heart, 
And  revelling  through  my  veins,  — 


60  I    NEVER    WILL    GROW    OLD. 

'T  is  hard  to  think  the  time  must  come 
When  I  can  seek  no  more, 

With  step  bold  as  a  mountain  child's, 
Deep  dell  and  rocky  shore  ;  — 

No  longer  on  my  swift  young  steed, 
Bound  o'er  the  hills  as  now, 

And  meet  half  way  the  winds  that  toss 
The  loose  locks  from  my  brow  ! 

Yet  still  my  spirit  may  go  forth 
Where  fearless  fancy  leads, 

May  take  at  will  as  glorious  rides, 
On  wild,  invisible  steeds ! 

Ye  tell  me  as  a  morning  dream 
Shall  pass  away,  ere  long, 

My  humble,  yet  most  passionate, 
Adoring  love  of  song. 

No,  no !  life's  ills  may  throng  my  way, 
And  pride  may  bend  the  knee, 

And  Hope's  bright  banner  kiss  the  dust; 
But  lofty  Poesy 


I    NEVER   WILL    GROW    OLD.  61 

Shall  fling  their  slavish  chains  aside, 

And  spurn  their  dark  control ; 
They  never,  never  shall  lay  waste 

That  Italy  of  the  soul ! 

My  father,  —  pleasant  years  may  pass, 

Ere  his  last  sun  shall  set ; 
And  —  blessed  be  the  God  of  life  !  — 

My  mother  liveth  yet. 

My  sisters  blend  their  souls  with  mine, 

A  laughing,  loving  band  ; 
A  heaven-set  guard  along  our  paths, 

Our  six  brave  brothers  stand. 

While  God  thus  pours  the  light  of  joy 

As  sunshine  round  my  home, 
O,  I  '11  lay  up  such  a  store  of  loves 

For  the  stormy  days  to  come ! 

In  the  joy  and  grief  of  every  one 

I  '11  seek  to  share  a  part, 
Till  grateful  thoughts  and  wishes  fond 

Come  thronging  to  my  heart. 


(J2  I   NEVER   WILL   GROW    OLD. 

The  earnest  praises  of  the  young, 
The  blessings  of  the  old, — 

I'll  gather  them  in,  P  11  hoard  them  up, 
As  a  miser  hoards  his  gold ! 

Those  loves  may  die,  yet  hopeful  trust 
Shall  leave  me,  fail  me,  never  ; 

I  will  plant  roses  on  their  graves,  — 
Vive  lajeunesse  for  ever  ! 

Smile  on,  doubt  on,  say  life  is  sad, 
The  world  is  false  and  cold,  — 

P  11  keep  my  heart  glad,  true,  and  warm, 
I  never  will  grow  old  ! 


WANTED.  — A  THEME. 


THE  spring  is  here  again,  mother !  she  bursts  upon  our 
sight, 

Like  a  young  girl  in  her  bridal  dress,  all  bloom,  and 
love,  and  light ; 

The  birds  from  out  the  sunny  South,  Heaven-guided, 
hither  come ; 

And  earth  is  very  fair,  mother,  far  round  our  cottage- 
home. 

A  spell   is  on  my  heart,    mother,  a  deep,   mysterious 

spell ; 

I  feel  the  mighty  tide  of  song  within  my  spirit   swell ! 
Then  find  for  me  a  theme,  mother,  a  theme  to  write 

upon, 
Ere  breaks  that  spell,  and  ere  that  tide  has  ebbed  away 

and  gone. 


64  WANTED. A   THEME. 

I  could  write  of  the  fields,  mother,  the  dark  and  waving 
woods, 

The  bursting  flowers,  the  clinging  vines,  the  water 
falls  and  floods ; 

But  then  the  world  would  say,  mother,  although  'twere 
done  up  neat, 

That  I  was  in  a  beaten  track,  a-following  that  Street. 

I  might  weave  lays  like  rose-wreaths,  mother,  and  fling 

them  left  and  right, 
All  odorous  with  the  breath  of  love,  and  glowing  with 

its  light ; 
But   though   't  were    all  a   sham,   mother,   wise   ones 

their  heads  would  shake, 
And  they  M  say  I  was  in  love,  mother,  which  were  a 

sad  mistake. 

I  could  write  of  the  West,  mother,  —  tell  many  a  back 
woods  tale  ; 

But  "  Mary  Clavers  "  long  ago  chanced  on  that  happy 
trail. 

And  " went  it  with  a  rush"  mother,  as  all  the  world 
agree, 

And  made  "  a  powerful  sight "  of  fun,  and  left  no 
laugh  for  me. 


WANTED. A   THEME.  65 

I  could  write  on  the  wars,  mother,  the  soldier's  glo 
rious  life, — 

I  sometimes  think  it  is  my  forte  to  sing  of  scenes  of 
strife  ; 

But  I  've  avowed  "  peace  principles,"  arid  may  not 
call  them  back. 

So  I  cannot  write  of  war,  mother,  —  I  must  take  an 
other  tack. 

The  terrible  might  do,  mother,  —  some  wild,  unearthly 

story  ; 

I  might  ride,  for  a  Pegasus,  a  nightmare  into  glory. 
But   then   that  "  Raven "    there,   mother,    above   that 

"  chamber-door," 
I  asked  him  if  't  would  be  a  hit,  —  quoth   the  raven, 

"  Never  more  !  " 

I  might  plead  for  the  poor,  mother,  the  wronged  and 

the  oppressed, 
And  give  a  flash  of  freedom's  fire,  deep   burning   in 

my  breast ; 
But  they  'd  say  I  was  a  fanatic,  a-battling  with  weak 

straws 
Against  the  mighty  Union,  and  the'  almighty  laws. 


66  WANTED.  —  A   THEME. 

The  fooleries  of  the  leau-monde,  mother,  should  I 
write  on  as  I  feel, 

The  ladies  fair  would  vote  me  odd,  and  not  at  all 
genteel ; 

And  ah,  the  lordly  sex,  mother,  their  ire  would  heav 
iest  fall, — 

They  'd  vow  I  was  a  sour  old  maid,  — and  that  were 
worse  than  all ! 

I  think  I  '11  off  to  bed,  mother,  —  I'm  tired,  and  then 
it 's  late ; 

The  horse  I  rode  this  afternoon  had  such  a  shocking 
gait! 

So  do  not  early  break,  mother,  my  deep  and  soft  re 
pose, 

For  I  love  a  morning  doze,  mother,  —  I  love  a  morn 
ing  doze. 


67 


HERVEY  TO  NINA.  —  MISS  BREMER. 


DIVIDED  in  our  lives,  and  yet  twin-hearted  ! 

Our  sad  first  parents  shared  a  happier  fate ; 
When,  from  Love's  Eden,  dearest,  we  departed, 

'T  was  ours  to  sever  at  the  outer  gate. 

Ah !  yet  I  know,  whatever  path  thou  'rt  tracing, 
Thy  tearful  eye  is  sometimes  backward  cast ; 

Thou  art  not  coldly  from  thy  heart  effacing 
The  thrilling  story  of  our  blissful  past,  — 

When  life  was  like  a  sunset's  glories  blended 
With  all  the  waking  splendors  of  the  morn, 

And  when,  dear  love,  if  some  light  showers  descended, 
It  seemed  't  was  but  that  rainbows  might  be  born. 


68  HERVEY    TO    NINA. MISS  BREMER. 

O  warm !    O  beautiful !    O  glorious  season  ! 

Like  the  first  blushing-time  of  Cashmere's  roses  ! 
My  soul  forgets  cold  truth,  and  worldly  reason, 

And  in  thy  lap  of  languid  joy  reposes. 

In  reveries  delicious  I  revisit 

Each  spot  where  love's  impassioned  tale  was  told ; 
Where  moments  passed  of  pleasure  so  exquisite, 

Time  should  have  marked  their  flight  with  sands  of 
gold. 

Again  upon  my  throbbing  breast  thou  'rt  leaning, 
O  fondly,  wildly  loved  one  !  O  adored  ! 

Again  come  back  thy  words  of  tenderest  meaning, 
That  once  such  transport  through  rny  bosom  poured. 

Again  I  feel  the  wish,  intense  and  burning, 
To  live  within  thy  life,  to  drink  thine  air ; 

That  deep,  mysterious,  and  mighty  yearning 

Would  draw  me  down  from  heaven,  wert  thou  not 
there. 

A  fount  there  was  within  each  bosom  flowing, 
That  gushed  not  water,  but  love's  purple  wine ; 

Sparkling  with  rapture,  and  with  passion  glowing, 
It  maketh  mortals  for  a  space  divine. 


HERVEY    TO    NINA. MISS   BKEMER.  69 

'T  was  joy  to  know  thee  of  that  fountain  drinking, 
Within  my  heart,  upspringing  but  for  thee, 

And  I  of  thine  as  deeply,  all  unthinking 

There  might  be  madness  in  that  draught  for  me ! 

When  all  of  bliss  the  earth-born  may  inherit, 

Divinely  lavish,  was  around  us  thrown, 
And  when  the  mystic  union  of  the  spirit 

Had  twined  our  glowing  beings  into  one, — 

Then  were  we  parted ;  Hope's  ecstatic  vision 

Grew  dim  with  tears,  and  Joy's  young  pinion  furled  ; 

Pillowed  on  flowers,  we  had  a  dream  Elysian, 
And  we  have  wakened  in  a  stormy  world  ! 

Gone,  gone  for  ever  !  we  beheld  it  vanish, 
As  a  warm  cloud  melts  in  the  blue  above ; 

Yet  from  our  souls  no  power  create  can  banish 
The  golden  memory  of  that  dream  of  love ! 


70 


NINA  TO  HER VEY.  — MISS  BREMEH. 


CANST  thou  forget,  beloved,  our  first  awaking 

From  out  the  shadowy  realm  of  doubts  and  dreams, 

To  know  Love's  perfect  sunlight  round  us  breaking, 
Bathing  our  beings  in  its  gorgeous  gleams  ? 
Canst  thou  forget  ? 

A  sky  of  rose  and  gold  was  o'er  us  glowing, 
Around  us  was  the  morning  breath  of  May  ; 

Then  met  our  soul-tides,  thence  together  flowing, 
Then  kissed  our  thought-waves  mingling  on  their  way : 
Canst  thou  forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  when  first  thy  loving  fingers 
Laid  gently  back  the  locks  upon  my  brow  ? 

Ah,  to  my  woman's  thought  that  touch  still  lingers, 
And  softly  glides  along  my  forehead  now ! 
Canst  thou  forget  ? 


NINA  TO  HERVEY. MISS  BREMER.         71 

Canst  thou  forget  when  every  twilight  tender, 
'Mid  dews  and  sweets,  beheld  our  slow  steps  rove, 

And  when  the  nights,  which  came  in  starry  splendor, 
Seemed  dim  and  pallid  to  our  heaven  of  love  ? 
Canst  thou  forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  the  childlike  heart-outpouring 
Of  her  whose  faith  knew  no  weak,  faltering  fears  ? 

The  lashes  drooped  to  veil  her  eyes  adoring, 
Her  speaking  silence,  and  her  blissful  tears  ? 
Canst  thou  forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget  the  last  most  mournful  meeting,  — 
The  trembling  form  clasped  to  thine  anguished  breast, 

The  heart  against  thine  own,  now  wildly  beating, 
Now  fluttering,  faint,  grief- wrung,  and  fear-oppressed? 
Canst  thou  forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget,  though  all  Love's  spells  be  broken, 
The  wild  farewell  which  rent  our  souls  apart  ? 

And  that  last  gift,  affection's  holiest  token, 
The  severed  tress,  which  lay  upon  thy  heart  ? 
Canst  thou  forget  ? 

Canst  thou  forget,  beloved  one  ?     Comes  there  never 
The  angel  of  sweet  visions  to  thy  rest  ? 


7x5  NINA    TO    HERVEY.  MISS   BREMER. 

Brings  she  not  back  the  fond  hopes  fled  for  ever, 
While  one  lost  name  thrills  through  thy  sleeping 
breast  ? 

Canst  thou  forget? 


SIHI,   THE   SWIMMER.  — MISS  BREMER. 


WHEN  evening  with  its  breezy  air 

Succeeds  the  sultry  day, 
Let  others  wear,  in  crowds  and  glare, 

The  tranquil  hours  away  ; 
But  be  it  mine  to  seek  at  eve 

Yon  lake  of  heavenly  blue, 
To  lave  my  weary  frame,  and  cleave 

The  shining  waters  through  ! 

When  first  the  fair  moon's  tender  light 

Steals  up  the  cloudless  sky, 
Like  plighted  maiden  to  her  knight, 

Down  shelving  shores  I  fly  ! 
My  lord,  constrained  by  kingliness, 

Hastes  not  his  love  to  meet, 
Yet  sends  wave-messengers,  who  press 

In  homage  round  my  feet. 


74  SIRI,    THE    SWIMMER. MISS  BKEMER. 

I  hear  his  gentle,  wooing  tone,  — 

I  come,  my  lord,  I  haste  ! 
Now  are  his  arms  about  me  thrown, 

They  circle  round  my  waist ! 
Their  fond  clasp  brings  no  fearful  chill ; 

Mine  own  extended  wide, 
I  fling  myself,  with  a  joyful  thrill, 

On  the  bosom  of  the  tide ! 

0,  what  delicious  coolness  flows 

Through  every  quivering  vein  ! 
Fresh  as  a  water-lily  grows 

My  fevered  heart  again ! 
The  spray  leaps  up  to  plash  my  brow ! 

My  long  hair,  unconfined, 
Is  flung,  like  some  young  Nereid's,  now 

To  tossing  wave  and  wind  ! 

A  new  and  glorious  life  is  mine,  — 

I  seem  to  float  through  heaven, 
And  mark  far  down  its  blue  depths  shine 

The  golden  stars  of  even ! 
Now  farther  from  the  shadowy  shore, 

Right  cheerily  away  ! 
See,  like  the  plashing  of  an  oar, 

My  tireless  arms'  quick  play  ! 


S1RI,    THE    SWIMMER. MISS  BKEMEK.  75 

And  now,  where  none  are  nigh  to  save, 

While  earth  grows  dim  behind, 
I  lay  my  cheek  to  the  kissing  wave, 

And  laugh  with  the  frolicsome  wind  ! 
On  the  billowy  swell  I  lean  my  breast, 

And  he  fondly  beareth  me  ; 
I  dash  the  foam  from  his  sparkling  crest, 

In  my  wild  and  careless  glee  ! 

Then  give  to  me  the  wild  delight 

To  dash  the  billows  through  ! 
To  bathe  at  once  in  moonbeams  white, 

And  in  the  waters  blue ! 
When,  hurrying  down  from  mountain  caves, 

The  cooling  night-wind  sweeps, 
O,  a  moonlight  frolic  with  the  waves, 

A  plunge  through  starlit  deeps  ! 


76 


THE   ARMY   OF  REFORM. 


YES,  ye  are  few,  —  and  they  were  few, 

Who,  daring  storm  and  sea, 
Once  raised  upon  old  Plymouth  rock 

"  The  anthem  of  the  free." 

And  they  were  few,  at  Lexington, 

To  battle,  or  to  die,  — 
That  lightning-flash,  that  thunder-peal, 

That  told  the  storm  was  nigh. 

And  they  were  few,  who  dauntless  stood 

Upon  old  Bunker's   height, 
And  waged  with  Britain's  strength  and  pride, 

The  fierce,  unequal  fight. 


THE    ARMY    OF    REFORM.  77 

And  they  were  few,  who,  all  unawed 

By  kingly  "  rights  divine," 
The  Declaration,  rebel  scroll, 

Untrembling  dared  to  sign. 

Yes,  ye  are  few,  for  one  proud  glance 

Can  take  in  all  your  band, 
As  now  against  a  countless  host, 

Firm,  true,  and  calm,  ye  stand. 

Unmoved  by  Folly's  idiot  laugh, 
Hate's  curse,  or  Envy's  frown, — 

Wearing  your  rights  as  royal  robes, 
Your  manhood  as  a  crown,  — 

With  eyes  whose  gaze,  unveiled  by  mists, 

Still  rises  clearer,  higher,  — 
With  stainless  hands,  and  lips  that  Truth 

Hath  touched  with  living  fire,  — 

With  one  high  hope,  that  ever  shines 

Before  you  as  a  star,  — 
One  prayer  of  faith,  one  fount  of  strength,  — 

A  glorious  few  ye  are  ! 


78  THE    ARMY    OF    REFORM. 

Ye  dare  not  fear,  ye  cannot  fail, 

Your  destiny  ye  bind 
To  that  sublime,  eternal  law, 

That  rules  the  march  of  mind. 

See  yon  bold  eagle,  toward  the  sun 
Now  rising  free  and  strong, 

And  see  yon  mighty  river  roll 
Its  sounding  tide  along  : 

Ah  !  yet  near  earth  the  eagle  tires, 
Lost  in  the  sea,  the  river  ; 

But  naught  can  stay  the  human  mind, 
'T  is  upward,  onward,  ever  ! 

It  yet  shall  tread  the  starlit  paths, 

By  highest  angels  trod, 
And  pause  but  at  the  farthest  world 

In  the  universe  of  God. 

'T  is  said  that  Persia's  baffled  king, 

In  mad,  tyrannic  pride, 
Cast  fetters  on  the  Hellespont, 

To  curb  its  swelling  tide  : 


THE   ARMY    OF    REFORM.  79 

But  freedom's  own  true  spirit  heaves 

The  bosom  of  the  main  ; 
It  tossed  those  fetters  to  the  skies, 

And  bounded  on  again ! 

The  scorn  of  each  succeeding  age 

On  Xerxes'  head  was  hurled, 
And  o'er  that  foolish  deed  has  pealed 

The  long  laugh  of  a  world. 

Thus,  thus,  defeat,  and  scorn,  and  shame, 

Is  his,  who  strives  to  bind 
The  restless,  leaping  waves  of  thought, 

The  free  tide  of  the  mind. 


80 


THE  LEAP  FROM  THE  LONG  BRIDGE. 


AN   INCIDENT   AT  WASHINGTON. 


A  woman  once  made  her  escape  from  the  slave-prison,  which  stands  midway 
between  the  Capitol  and  the  President's  house,  and  ran  for  the  Long  Bridge, 
crossing  the  Potomac  to  the  extensive  grounds  and  woodlands  of  Arlington 
Place.  

Now  rest  for  the  wretched.     The  long  day  is  past, 
And  night  on  yon  prison  descendeth  at  last. 
Now  lock  up  and  bolt.  —  Ha,  jailer  !  look  there  ! 
Who  flies  like  a  wild-bird  escaped  from  the  snare  ? 
A  woman,  — a  slave  !     Up  !  out  in  pursuit, 

While  linger  some  gleams  of  the  day ! 
Ho !  rally  thy  hunters,  with  halloo  and  shout, 
To  chase  down  the  game,  —  and  away  ! 

A  bold  race  for  freedom  !  —  On,  fugitive,  on  ! 
Heaven  help  but  the  right,  and  thy  freedom  is  won. 
How  eager  she  drinks  the  free  air  of  the  plains ! 
Every  limb,  every  nerve,  every  fibre,  she  strains ; 


THE  LEAP  FROM  THE  LONG  BRIDGE.        81 


From  Columbia's  glorious  Capitol 
Columbia's  daughter  flees 

To  the  sanctuary  God  hath  given, 
The  sheltering  forest-trees. 


Now  she  treads  the  Long  Bridge,  —  joy  lighteth  her 

eye,— 

Beyond  her  the  dense  wood  and  darkening  sky  ; 
Wild  hopes  thrill  her  breast  as  she  neareth  the  shore,  — 
O  despair  !  —  there  are  men  fast  advancing  before  ! 
Shame,  shame  on  their  manhood  !  —  they  hear,  they 

heed, 

The  cry  her  flight  to  stay, 

And,  like  demon-forms,  with  their  outstretched  arms 
They  wait  to  seize  their  prey  ! 

She  pauses,  she  turns,  —  ah  !  will  she  flee  back  ? 
Like  wolves  her  pursuers  howl  loud  on  her  track  ; 
She  lifteth  to  Heaven  one  look  of  despair, 
Her  anguish  breaks  forth  in  one  hurried  prayer. 
Hark,  her  jailer's  yell !  — like  a  bloodhound's  bay 

On  the  low  night-wind  it  sweeps ! 
Now  death,  or  the  chain  !  —  to  the  stream  she  turns, 
And  she  leaps,  O  God,  she  leaps  ! 


82       THE  LEAP  FROM  THE  LONG  BRIDGE. 

The  dark,  and  the  cold,  yet  merciful  wave 
Receives  to  its  bosom  the  form  of  the  slave. 
She  rises,  —  earth's  scenes  on  her  dim  vision  gleam, 
But  she  struggleth  not  with  the  strong,  rushing  stream, 
And  low  are  the  death-cries  her  woman's  heart  gives 

As  she  floats  adown  the  river ; 
Faint  and  more  faint  grows  her  drowning  voice, 
And  her  cries  have  ceased  for  ever  ! 

Now  back,  jailer,  back  to  thy  dungeons  again, 
To  swing  the  red  lash  and  rivet  the  chain ! 
The  form  thou  wouldst  fetter  a  valueless  clod, 
The  soul  thou  wouldst  barter  returned  to  her  God  ! 
She  lifts  in  His  light  her  un&anacled  hands  ; 

She  flees  through  the  darkness  no  more ; 
To  freedom  she  leaped  through  drowning  and  death, 
And  her  sorrow  and  bondage  are  o'er. 


83 


THE   LAST  GIFT. 


I  LEAVE  thee,  love  !     In  vain  hast  them 

The  God  of  life  implored  ; 
My  clinging  soul  is  torn  from  thine, 

My  faithful,  my  adored  ! 
My  last  gift,  —  I'tave  on  it  breathed 

In  blessing  and  in  prayer ; 
So  lay  it  close,  close  to  thy  heart, 

This  little  lock  of  hair ! 

I  know  thou  wilt  think  tenderly 

And  lovingly  on  me, 
Thou  wilt  forget  my  waywardness, 

When  I  am  gone  from  thee ; 
Thou  wilt  remember  all  my  love, 

Which  made  thee  think  me  fair ; 
Thou  wilt  with  many  tears  be-gem 

This  little  lock  of  hair  ! 


84  THE    LAST    GIFT. 

And  yet,  at  last,  thy  grief's  wild  storm 

Will  sigh  itself  to  rest ; 
Then  thou  mayst  choose  another  love, 

And  clasp  her  to  thy  breast ; 
But  when  she  hides  her  glowing  face 

In  tearful  gladness  there, 
O,  do  not  let  her  hand  displace 

This  little  lock  of  hair  ! 

The  dark,  rich  hue  thou  oft  hast  praised, 

This  ringlet  still  shall  hold ; 
Still,  as  the  sunlight  on  it  falls, 

Give  out  quick  gleams  of  gold. 

hough  years  roll  by,  no  trace  of  change 

Its  glossy  rings  shall  wear  ; 
It  never  will  grow  gray,  beloved, 

This  little  lock  of  hair ! 

And  when  the  earth  weighs  chill  and  damp 

Above  my  resting-place, 
When  fall  moist  tresses  heavily 

Around  my  cold,  dead  face, 
'T  is  sweet  to  know  a  part  of  me 

Thine  own  life-glow  may  share. 
Thou  'It  keep  it  warm,  love,  always  warm, 

This  little  lock  of  hair ! 


THE    LAST    GIFT.  85 

Ah,  dearest,  see  how  pale  and  cold 

Has  grown  this  hand  of  mine  ! 
No  longer  now  it  glows  and  thrills 

Within  the  clasp  of  thine  ; 
I  go  !  —  soon,  where  my  dying  head 

Is  pillowed  with  fond  care, 
No  trace  of  me  shall  linger,  save 

This  little  lock  of  hair. 

I  see  thee  not !  —  I  faintly  feel 

The  fast  tears  thou  dost  weep ; 
Kiss  down  my  quivering  eyelids,  love, 

Thus,  thus,  and  I  will  sleep. 
I  go  where  angels  beckon  me, 

I  go  their  heaven  to  share ; 
Yet,  with  a  longing  envy,  leave 

This  little  lock  of  hair  ! 


86 


EMILIE    PLATER. 


The  young  Countess  Plater  did  in  truth  die  for  Poland,  though  it  was  not 
hers  to  fall  in  the  field.  Her  health  was  destroyed  by  the  terrible  hardships 
which  she  endured,  and  her  heart  broken  that  she  had  endured  them  in  vain. 


0  RAINBOW  of  the  battle-storm  ! 
Methinks  thou  'rt  gleaming  on  my  sight ; 

1  see  thy  fair  and  fragile  form 

Amid  the  thick  cloud  of  the  fight ! 

I  mark  thy  glowing  lips  compressed, 
Thy  brows  in  haughty  sternness  knit, 

The  eager  panting  of  thy  breast, 
The  strange  fire  in  thy  blue  eyes  lit. 

On,  on,  in  maddest  bravery  dashing, 

Thou  lead'st  thy  band  against  their  foes  ! 

Now  Russian  blades  are  round  thee  clashing, 
Now  Russian  ranks  about  thee  close  ! 


EMILIE    PLATER.  87 

Before  thy  slender  arm  I  see 

The  bearded  Cossack  reel  and  fall ! 

I  hear  thy  voice,  bold,  clear,  and  free, 
In  charging  cry  and  rallying  call  ! 

The  young  Pole  hears  it,  —  through  his  heart 

There  leaps  a  stronger,  wilder  life  ! 
Again  his  eyes  fierce  lightnings  dart, 

Again  he  plunges  in  the  strife ! 

The  veteran,  whose  life  is  poured 

Through  countless  wounds  upon  the  plain, 

Hears  it,  and  grasps  his  dripping  sword, 
To  strike  for  Poland  once  again  ! 

O  Heaven,  and  this  was  all  in  vain ! 

And,  matchless  maiden,  it  was  thine 
To  carnage,  pillage,  and  the  chain 

Thy  dear,  lost  country  to  resign  ! 

Was  it  for  this  from  girlish  days 

Thy  gentle  frame  thou  hadst  inured 
To  midnight  chill,  and  noontide  blaze, 

And  all  a  soldier's  toils  endured  ? 


88  EMILIE    PLATER. 

For  this  had  dreams  of  high  endeavour, 
Of  triumph  in  the  stormy  strife, 

Drowned  with  their  trumpet-notes  for  ever 
The  music  of  a  woman's  life  ? 

Thy  country,  glorious,  brave,  and  fair, 
Thine  all  of  life,  thine  only  love,  — 

For  her  alone  thy  constant  prayer 
Rose  burning  to  the  throne  above  ! 

Her  name  alone  thy  heart's  depths  stirred, 
And  filled  thy  soul  with  warlike  pride, 

Which  gave  the  maiden  strength  to  gird 
The  falchion  on  her  tender  side. 

Yet  in  thy  last  hours,  dark  and  lonely, 
Thou,  so  devoted,  faithful,  brave, 

Didst  ask,  in  sorrowing  meekness,  only 
Of  thy  adoring  land  —  a  grave. 

How  was  thy  woman's  soul  betrayed, 
When  death's  seal  on  thy  brow  was  set  ! 

Then  thou  didst  weep  above  the  blade, 
So  oft  with  life-blood  vainly  wet ! 


EMILIE    PLATER.  89 

When  Hope  sighed  out  her  glimmering  light, 

When  thou  didst  see  Sarmatia  lie 
Bleeding  and  bound  in  slavery's  night, 

Then  was  thy  fitting  time  to  die. 


90 


LOVE'S   EMBLEMS. 


THERE  was  a  rose,  that  blushing  grew 

Within  my  life's  young  bower ; 
The  angels  sprinkled  holy  dew 

Upon  the  blessed  flower. 
I  glory  to  resign  it,  love, 

Though  it  was  dear  to  me ; 
Amid  thy  laurels  twine  it,  love, 

It  only  blooms  for  thee. 

There  was  a  rich  and  radiant  gem 

I  long  kept  hid  from  sight  ; 
Lost  from  some  seraph's  diadem, 

It  shone  with  heaven's  own  light ! 
The  world  could  never  tear  it,  love, 

That  gem  of  gems,  from  me  ; 
Yet  on  thy  fond  breast  wear  it,  love, 

It  only  shines  for  thee. 


LOVE'S    EMBLEMS.  91 

There  was  a  bird  came  to  my  breast, 

When  I  was  very  young  ; 
I  only  knew  that  sweet  bird's  nest, 

To  me  she  only  sung. 
But,  ah  !  one  summer  day,  love, 

I  saw  that  bird  depart ! 
The  truant  flew  thy  way,  love, 

And  nestled  in  thy  heart ! 


92 


THE   LOST  HEART. 


"  SAY,  have  you  found  the  heart  I  lost 

As  you  and  I,  last  night, 
The  fragrant,  new-mown  meadow  crossed, 

Beneath  the  sweet  starlight  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  heart ;  but  ere  I  show  it, 

'T  is  fair  thou  shouldst  define 
The  private  marks  by  which  thou  'It  know  it ; 

No  doubt  the  heart  is  thine." 

"  Well,  't  was  not  hard,  nor  very  strong, 

A  loving,  little  heart, 
Filled  with  sweet  raptures  and  wild  song, 

But  all  unskilled  in  art. 


THE    LOST    HEART.  93 

"  'T  was  like,  in  its  free,  joyous  youth, 

A  bird  upon  the  wing,  — 
A  worshipper  of  love,  and  truth, 

And  every  blessed  thing." 

"  Well,  here 's  the  heart,  so  fond  and  true,  — 

I  never  could  forsake  it ; 
Yet  rightfully  belongs  to  you 

The  priceless  gem,  —  then  take  it." 

"  I  thank  you,  Sir.     But  hold,  look  here  ! 

I  said  my  heart  was  small ; 
This  great,  warm,  throbbing  heart,  't  is  clear, 

Is  not  my  heart  at  all ! 

"  Aha,  a  roguish  plunderer  thou  ! 

So  this  nice  heart  is  thine  I 
No  matter  though,  I  '11  keep  it  now, 

'T  is  most  as  good  as  mine." 


94 


THERESE. 


A  ROSE  once  pressed  against  thy  lips, 

Then  gayly  flung  to  me, 
Is  all  the  gift  I  treasure  up 

In  memory  of  thee  ; 
It  bringeth  back  that  golden  time, 

Too  beautiful  to  last, 
The  glad  and  love-lit  past,  Therese, 

The  glad  and  love-lit  past ! 

Then  comes  the  memory  of  the  change 

Which  fell  upon  thy  heart, 
As  falls  the  frost  upon  the  rose 

When  summer  suns  depart ; 
And  now  returns  that  weary  time 

With  doubts  and  glooms  o'ercast, 
The  sad  and  mournful  past,  Therese, 

The  sad  and  mournful  past ! 


THERESE.  95 

Young  flowers,  fair,  quickly  fading  flowers, 

Love's  rneetest  emblems  they, 
For  naught  in  life  so  fitly  marks 

Its  swift  and  sure  decay  ; 
O  type  of  that  frail,  passing  faith 

So  fondly  set  apart 
To  wither  in  its  early  dew, 

And  die  upon  my  heart ! 


96 


SONGS. 


No  passionless  creature  of  duty, 

No  child  of  capricious  delay, 
Our  love,  like  the  goddess  of  beauty, 

Sprang  into  warm  life  in  a  day  ! 
Around  us  her  magic  spells  flinging, 

She  smiled  as  she  saw  we  adored, 
And  then,  in  a  burst  of  wild  singing, 

Her  soul's  morning  raptures  outpoured. 

Ah,  soon  changed  that  song,  born  in  heaven, 
To  farewells  and  passionate  sighs  ! 

For  a  mist,  like  the  shadow  of  even, 
Came  over  her  violet  eyes  : 

With  Hope's  golden  sunshine  around  her, 
On  Joy's  couch  of  roses  half- blown, 


SONGS.  97 

Pale,  cold  as  a  snow-wreath,  we  found  her ;  — 
Her  glowing  young  spirit  had  flown ! 


II. 

THOUGH  now  it  were  madness  to  cherish 

The  dream  that  enchained  us  so  long, 
Yet  shall  it  not  utterly  perish, 

For  thou  hast  embalmed  it  in  song  : 
Its  story's  exquisite  revealing 

Shall  live  on  the  lips  of  the  young ; 
Each  change  of  its  passionate  feeling 

Be  gayly  or  mournfully  sung. 

Like  honey-dew  dropping  on  blossoms, 

On  hearts  thy  sweet  numbers  shall  fall  ; 
Thy  lays  shall  thrill  desolate  bosoms, 

And  tenderest  visions  recall ; 
Now  wild,  like  the  rapturous  greeting 

That  song-birds  send  down  from  above  ; 
Now  sad,  like  the  tremulous  beating 

Of  hearts  that  are  breaking  with  love. 


98  SONGS. 


HI. 

WE  must  silence,  with  words  of  cold  reason, 

The  eloquent  voice  of  the  heart ; 
For  Love  hath  stayed  out  his  brief  season, 

And  spread  his  young  wing  to  depart ! 
Though  awhile  round  our  memory  he  hovers, 

He  may  smilingly  offer  no  more 
Fond  words,  the  ambrosia  of  lovers, 

Nor  the  nectar  of  passion  outpour. 

Our  last  tearful  farewell  is  spoken, 

Life's  sweet  morning-vision  hath  flown ! 
Each  vow,  each  glad  promise,  is  broken, 

That  twined  our  twin  beings  in  one  ! 
And  severed  are  love's  golden  fetters, 

And  sympathy's  silvery  chain ; 
So  please.  Sir,  return  me  my  letters, 

I  may  wish  to  use  them  again  ! 


99 


VOICES  FROM  THE  OLD  WORLD:    THE 
FAMINE  OF    1847. 


A  VOICE  from  out  the  Highlands, 

Old  Scotia's  mountain  homes  ! 
From  wild  burn-side,  and  darksome  glen, 

And  towering  steep,  it  comes ! 
Is  it  the  shout  of  huntsmen  bold, 

Who  chase  the  antlered  stag, 
Who  sound  the  horn  and  cheer  the  hound, 

And  leap  from  crag  to  crag  ? 
Is  it  the  call  of  rising  clans, 

The  cry  of  gathering  men  ? 
Pours  Freedom's  rocky  fortress  forth 

Its  Gaelic  hordes  again  ? 
Throng  round  the  Scottish  chieftains 

Such  hosts  as,  long  ago, 


100  VOICES    FROM    THE    OLD   WORLD. 

In  mountain  storms  of  valor 

Swept  down  upon  the  foe  ? 
When  hoarse  and  deep,  like  thunder, 

Their  shouts  of  vengeful  wrath, 
And  the  lightning  of  drawn  claymores  ] 

Flashed  out  upon  their  path  ? 

Far  other  are  the  fearful  sounds 

Borne  o'er  the  wintry  wave,  — 
The  cry  of  mortal  agony, 

The  death-groans  of  the  brave  ! 
For  once  a  foe  invincible 

The  kilted  Gael  hath  found  ; 
At  length  one  field  beholds  him  yield, — 

Starvation's  battle-ground  ! 

Thus,  thus  come  forth  the  mountaineers,  — 

Pale,  gaunt,  and  ghastly  bands, 
Who  westward  turn  their  frenzied  eyes, 

And  stretch  their  shrivelled  hands  ! 
And  like  the  shriek  of  madness  comes 

Their  wild,  beseeching  cry, — 
"  Bread,  bread  !  we  faint,  we  waste,  we  starve  ! 

Bread,  bread  !    O  God,  we  die  !  " 


VOICES    FROM    THE    OLD   WORLD.  101 

And  shall  they  perish  thus,  whose  sires, 

Stout  warrior-men  and  stern, 
With  Wallace  battled  side  by  side, 

And  bled  at  Bannockburn  ? 

Where  Freedom's  new-world  realms  expand 

Where  western  sunsets  glow, 
A  nation  with  one  mighty  voice 

Gives  back  the  answer,  —  No  ! 
'T  is  ours,  't  is  ours,  the  godlike  power 

To  bid  doomed  thousands  live  ! 
Then  let  us  on  the  waters  cast 

The  bread  of  our  reprieve. 
Give,  give  !  —  when  Scotia's  proud  sons  beg, 

O  Heaven,  who  would  not  give  ? 

And  forms  of  womanhood  are  there,  — 

The  matron  and  the  maid, — 
Strange,  haggard,  famine-wasted  shapes, 

In  tattered  garbs  arrayed. 
And  these  are  they  whose  beauties  rare 

Are  famed  in  song  and  story  ! 
And  these  are  they  whose  mothers'  names 

Are  linked  with  Scotland's  glory ! 


102  VOICES    FROM    THE    OLD   WORLD. 

Ah,  they  too  gaze,  with  dim,  sad  eyes, 

Out  o'er  the  western  main  !  — 
While  there  are  beating  woman-hearts 

They  shall  not  gaze  in  vain  ! 
We  rest  not  till  we  minister 

To  their  despairing  need ; 
Give,  give  !  —  O  Heaven,  who  would  not  give 

When  Scotia's  daughters  plead  ? 

A  voice  from  Erin's  storied  isle 

Comes  sweeping  o'er  the  main  ! 
Ha  !  calls  she  on  her  sons  to  strike 

For  freedom  once  again  ? 
Or  rises  from  her  heart  of  fire 

The  pealing  voice  of  song, 
Or  rolls  the  tide  of  eloquence 

The  burdened  air  along  ? 
Or,  ringeth  out  some  lay  of  love, 

By  blue-eyed  maidens  sung, 
Or,  sweeter,  dearer  music  yet, 

The  laughter  of  the  young? 

Far  other  is  that  fearful  voice, 
A  sound  of  woe  and  dread  ! 


VOICES    FROM   THE    OLD  WORLD.  103 

'T  is  Erin  mourning  for  her  sons, 

The  dying  and  the  dead  ! 
They  perish  in  the  open  fields, 

They  fall  beside  the  way, 
Or  lie  within  their  hovel-homes, 

Their  bed  the  damp,  cold  clay, 
And  watch  the  sluggish  tide  of  life 

Ebb  slowly  day  by  day  ! 
They  sink  as  sinks  the  mariner 

When  wrecked  upon  the  wave, 
"  Unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown," 

No  winding-sheet,  —  no  grave  ! 

To  us  her  cry.     Be  our  reply, 

Bread-laden  argosies ! 
Let  love's  divine  armada  meet 

Her  fearful  enemies  ! 
Give,  give  !  and  feel  the  smile  of  God 

Upon  thy  spirit  lie  ; 
Draw  back,  and  let  thy  poor  soul  hear 

Its  angel's  parting  sigh. 
Give,  give  !  —  O  Heaven,  who  would  not  give 

When  Erin's  brave  sons  die  ? 

O  sisters,  there  are  famishing 
The  old,  with  silver  hair, 


104  VOICES    FKOM    THE    OLD   WORLD. 

And  dead,  unburied  babes  are  left 

To  waste  upon  the  air, 
And  mothers  wan  and  fever-worn 

Beside  their  hearths  are  sinking, 
And  maiden  forms,  while  yet  in  life, 

To  skeletons  are  shrinking ! 

Ho,  freight  the  good  ship  to  the  wale, — 

Pile  high  the  golden  grain  ! 
A  nation's  life-boat  spreads  her  sail,  — 

God  speed  her  o'er  the  main  ! 
His  peace  shall  calm  the  stormy  skies, 

And  rest  upon  the  waters. 
Give,  give  !  —  O  Heaven,  who  would  not  give 

When  perish  Erin's  daughters  ? 


105 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  GENIUS. 


WHERE  in  their  Northern  grandeur  lie 
Old  Ocean's  craggy  shores,  — 

Where  waves  give  back  the  glorious  sky, 

And  lift  unceasingly  on  high 

Their  deep,  majestic  symphony,  — 
An  Eagle  sunward  soars  ! 

Through  upper  air  lies  his  flight's  bold  ring, 

And  its  portal-guarders  frown ; 
They  throng  with  angry  muttering, 
Their  rattling  ice-shot  round  him  fling, 
But  he  shakes  the  small  hail  from  his  wing, 
And  royally  soars  on  ! 


106  THE    FLIGHT    OF    GENIUS. 

Yet  a  sterner,  darker  strife  is  nigh  ; 

Wild  storms  come  sweeping  down ; 
Their  thunders  peal  through  the  trembling  sky, 
Their  red  lights  gleam  on  the  quivering  eye, 
Small  birds  to  their  leafy  coverts  fly, 

But  the  Eagle  still  soars  on  ! 

Gaze  high  !  for,  the  thunder's  realm  o'erpast, 

Now  where  warm  glories  spring, 
Where  no  storm  his  way  may  overcast, 
Outsoaring  the  lightning  and  the  blast, 
Lo,  a  golden  cloud  receives  at  last 
The  bird  of  the  mighty  wing ! 


107 


LOVE-LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND. 


DEAR  Anna,  hast  ne'er  heard  it  told 

How  florists  have  the  curious  power 
To  graft  on  some  rude  garden-plant 

A  tender  and  exquisite  flower  ? 
Thus  are  our  natures  made  as  one, 

In  union  mystic  and  divine  ; 
Thus,  sweetest  rose  of  womanhood, 

Thy  life  is  blooming  into  mine. 

u  Forget "  thee  !    Whence  the  childish  fear 

Ah,  vain  would  be  such  heart-recalling ! 
Have  I  not  felt  thine  angel  smiles,  — 

Thy  tears  upon  my  bosom  falling  ? 
How  oft,  when,  through  our  lattice  stealing, 

The  moonlight  came  in  quivering  gleams, 
When  thou  wert  by  my  side  reposing, 

Thy  spirit  busy  with  its  dreams, — 


108  LOVE-LETTER    TO    A    FRIEND. 

In  love  that  would  not  let  me  sleep, 

I  hung  above  thy  tranquil  rest, 
Whose  soft,  low  breathings  scarcely  stirred 

The  snowy  folds  upon  thy  breast, 
And  watched  to  see  thy  starry  eyes 

Beam  from  their  blue-veined  lids'  eclipse, 
And  drank  thy  very  breath,  and  kissed 

The  night-dew  from  thy  rose-bud  lips ! 

As  one  in  moon-lit,  star-crowned  night 

Marks  not  the  dark  and  envious  shades 
That  lurk  within  the  garden-bower, 

Or  glide  along  the  forest-glades  ; 
Thus  heed  I  not  life's  shadows  dim, 

Though  gathering  fast,  around,  above, 
The  blessed  while  't  is  mine  to  feel 

The  silvery  presence  of  thy  love. 


109 


ILLUMINATION  FOR  VICTORIES  IN  MEXICO. 


LIGHT  up  thy  homes,  Columbia, 

For  those  chivalric  men 
Who  bear  to  scenes  of  warlike  strife 

Thy  conquering  arms  again, 
Where  glorious  victories,  flash  on  flash, 

Reveal  their  stormy  way,  — 
Resaca's,  Palo  Alto's  fields, 

The  heights  of  Monterey  ! 

They  pile  with  thousands  of  thy  foes 

Buena  Vista's  plain  ; 
With  maids  and  wives,  at  Vera  Cruz, 

Swell  high  the  list  of  slain  ! 
They  paint  upon  the  Southern  skies 

The  blaze  of  burning  domes, — 
Their  laurels  dew  with  blood  of  babes ! 

Light  up,  light  up  thy  homes  ! 


110        ILLUMINATION    FOR   VICTORIES  IN    MEXICO. 

Light  up  your  homes,  O  fathers  ! 

For  those  young  hero  bands, 
Whose  march  is  still  through  vanquished  towns, 

And  over  conquered  lands  ! 
Whose  valor,  wild,  impetuous, 

In  all  its  fiery  glow, 
Pours  onward  like  a  lava-tide, 

And  sweeps  away  the  foe  ! 

For  those  whose  dead  brows  glory  crowns, 

On  crimson  couches  sleeping, 
And  for  home  faces  wan  with  grief, 

And  fond  eyes  dim  with  weeping, 
And  for  the  soldier,  poor,  unknown} 

Who  battled,  madly  brave, 
Beneath  a  stranger  soil  to  share 

A  shallow,  crowded  grave. 

Light  up  thy  home,  young  mother  ! 

Then  gaze  in  pride  and  joy 
Upon  those  fair  and  gentle  girls, 

That  eagle-eyed  young  boy ; 
And  clasp  thy  darling  little  one 

Yet  closer  to  thy  breast, 
And  be  thy  kisses  on  its  lips 

In  yearning  love  impressed. 


ILLUMINATION    FOR    VICTORIES    IN    MEXICO.         Ill 

In  yon  beleaguered  city 

Were  homes  as  sweet  as  thine  ; 
There  trembling  mothers  felt  loved  arms 

In  fear  around  them  twine,  — 
The  lad  with  brow  of  olive  hue, 

The  babe  like  lily  fair, 
The  maiden  with  her  midnight  eyes, 

And  wealth  of  raven  hair. 

The  booming  shot,  the  murderous  shell, 

Crashed  through  the  crumbling  walls, 
And  filled  with  agony  and  death 

Those  sacred  household  halls  ! 
Then,  bleeding,  crushed,  and  blackened,  lay 

The  sister  by  the  brother, 
And  the  torn  infant  gasped  and  writhed 

On  the  bosom  of  the  mother ! 

O  sisters,  if  ye  have  no  tears 

For  fearful  tales  like  these, 
If  the  banners  of  the  victors  veil 

The  victim's  agonies, 
If  ye  lose  the  babe's  and  mother's  cry 

In  the  noisy  roll  of  drums, 
If  your  hearts  with  martial  pride  throb  high, 

Light  up,  light  up  your  homes  ! 


112 


VALENTINES. 


WRITTEN   FOR   MISS   L '3   VALENTINE  PARTIES. 


TO  FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK. 

MUST  silence  rest  upon  thy  lyre, 
And  will  thy  hand  awake  it  never  ? 

And  must  the  great  deeps  of  thy  soul 
Remain  becalmed  for  ever  ? 

O  for  a  midnight  storm  of  song ! 

The  peal  of  arms,  the  blaze  of  glory, 
Like  that  which  once  aroused  a  world,  — 

Thy  Grecian  hero's  story  ! 

O  for  a  generous  burst  of  song ! 

Like  that  which  once  new  splendor  shed 
Round  the  "  pilgrim  shrine"  of  a  poet's  grave, 

And  deified  the  dead  ! 


VALENTINES.  113 

O  for  a  mirth-born  "  Fanny,"  sent, 

That  troubled  lives,  half  unawares, 
Might  take  in  dancing  shapes  of  joy, 

And  banish  spectre  cares  ! 

O  for  a  lay,  to  crown  the  brave !  — 

Or  rosy  wreaths  of  love  to  twine, 
To  ring  joy's  bells,  or  start  griefs  tear, 

If  only  it  be  thine  I 

Be  hero-bard,  —  be  minstrel  gay,  — 

Thy  song,  if  of  thy  soul  a  part, 
Must  bear  a  charmed  life,  and  live 

Within  thy  country's  heart. 


TO  A  REFORMER. 

"  ENTHUSIAST,"  "  Dreamer,"  —  such  the  names 

Thine  age  bestows  on  thee, 
For  that  great  nature,  going  forth 

In  world-wide  sympathy  ; 
For  the  vision  clear,  the  spirit  brave, 

The  honest  heart  and  warm, 
And  the  voice  which  swells  the  battle-cry 

Of  Freedom  and  Reform  ! 


114  VALENTINES. 

Yet,  for  thy  fearless  manliness, 

When  weak  time-servers  throng, — 
Thy  chivalrous  defence  of  right, 

Thy  bold  rebuke  of  wrong,  — 
And  for  the  flame  of  liberty, 

Heaven-kindled  in  thy  breast, 
Which  thou  hast  fed  like  sacred  fire,  — 

A  blessing  on  thee  rest ! 

'T  is  said  thy  spirit  knoweth  not 

Its  times  of  calm  and  sleeping, 
That  ever  are  its  restless  thoughts 

Like  wild  waves  onward  leaping. 
Then  may  its  flashing  waters 

Be  tranquil  never  more,  — 
They  are  "  troubled  "  by  an  angel, 

Like  the  sacred  pool  of  yore. 


TO   MISS  C.   M.   SEDGWICK. 

O  GLORY-WEDDED  !  to  thy  brow 

A  coronal  is  given, 
For  which,  when  song  and  Greece  were  young, 

The  very  gods  had  striven. 


VALENTINES.  1]5 

O,  find'st  thou  not  that  envied  crown 

A  weary  weight,  and  chilling  ? 
Its  lonely  glory,  is  it  not 

An  ice-touch,  heartward  thrilling  ? 

Ah,  no  !   e'en  now  a  rosy  light 

Those  vernal  leaves  is  flushing ; 
O  woman-hearted,  love's  warm  buds 

Are  'mid  thy  laurels  blushing ! 


TO  MR.  GILES. 

A  CLASSIC  heaven  of  old  thy  soul, 
Song,  grace,  and  fire  divine  ; 

But  the  heaven  of  a  purer  faith, 
That  Christian  heart  of  thine. 

Thus  he  who  walks  beside  thee 
Hath  what  employ  he  chooses ; 

May  worship  with  the  Angels, 
Or  converse  with  the  Muses. 


116  VALENTINES. 

TO  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

I  SEND  thee  here  no  valentine, 
I  only  dash  thee  off  a  line. 

In  trembling  haste  I  send  it, — 
Give  earnest  heed  to  what  I  say  ; 
I  've  a  grievous  rent  in  my  heart  to-day. 

I  prithee,  Taylor,  mend  it  ! 


TO  G.  P.  MORRIS. 

APOLLO  once  had  leave  to  travel ; 

He  sought  our  Yankee  land, 
And  he  lionized  it  through, 

With  his  golden  lyre  in  hand. 

Once,  at  "  a  cottage  near  a  wood," 

Which  promised  welcome's  smile, 
He  thought,  by  general  invitation, 

To  rusticate  awhile. 

One  morn  he  woke,  —  he  yawned,  —  he  turned, 

Sprang  up  with  fright  and  grief, 
And  cried,  "  By  George  !  my  lyre  is  stolen : 

Without  there,  ho !  stop  thief! " 


VALENTINES.  117 

But  vainly  sought  he  east  and  west, 
Half  mad,  —  all  broken-hearted  ; 

O,  a  most  ungodlike  look  he  wore, 
With  his  glory  all  departed ! 

At  last  he  turned  Olympus-ward, 
Thus  lyreless,  —  woe  's  the  day  ! 

For  Juno  frowned,  and  Venus  wept, 
And  Cupid  ran  away  ! 

Those  ennuied  gods  and  goddesses, 

Upon  their  mount  sublime, 
O,  had  they  not  a  weary  lot, 

A  dull  and  dozing  time  ! 

/ 

One  morn  there  rose  upon  the  air 
Most  sweet,  though  mortal  song, 

By  Zephyrus'  glad  wing  upborne 
To  charm  that  heavenly  throng. 

Fair  Venus  bent  her  pearly  ear, 

Then  earthward  fixed  her  gaze, 
And  smiled  a  curious  kind  of  smile, 

Half  pleasure,  —  half  amaze. 


118  VALENTINES. 

"  I  see  a  mortal  bard,  his  hand 
Across  a  lyre's  strings  flinging, 

And  mortal  lips  catch  up  the  strains, 
Till  all  the  land  is  ringing  ! 

"  About  him  throng  the  fair  and  young,  — 
They  crown  him  !  —  I  declare, 

Fast  by  him  stands  my  truant  boy  !  — 
Apollo,  dear,  look  there  !  " 

The  god  rose  from  his  cloud-divan : 
"  Ha  !  by  my  thundering  sire, 

I  understand  that  game  of  Morris. 

There  's  the  thief  that  stole  my  lyre  !  " 


TO  MISS  A.  C.  L- 


THY  life  is  like  a  fountain  clear,  upspringing 
Beside  the  weary  way  I  'm  treading  now ; 

I  love  to  linger  near,  and  feel  it  flinging 
Its  pure  baptism  on  my  fevered  brow. 


VALENTINES.  119 

Thy  gentle  heart  is  like  the  couch  of  resting, 
That  welcomes  home  the  wanderer  of  the  deep, 

To  my  tired  spirit,  weary  with  long  breasting 
The  midnight  waves  that  round  about  me  sweep. 

Thy  soul  is  like  a  silver  lake  at  even, 

Emblem  of  power,  and  purity,  and  rest, — 

Within  its  depths  the  eternal  stars  of  heaven, 
While  earth's  fair  lilies  float  upon  its  breast. 


TO  A  POET. 

TENDER  and  pale  the  young  moon  shone,  — 
The  time  of  dreams  stole  o'er  the  earth, 
Stilling  the  greenwood's  sounds  of  mirth, 
Hushing  the  wild  birds  to  repose, 

Save  the  nightingale,  who  warbled  on, 
Leaning  his  breast  against  a  rose  ; 

'T  was  then  from  out  a  forest  bower 

Through  shadows  peered  one  wakeful  flower, 
Her  azure  robe  with  night-dews  wet, 

Watching  a  star  through  the  purple  even  ; 

And  the  star,  though  shining  in  highest  heaven, 
Smiled  down  on  the  violet ; 


120  VALENTINES. 

For  a  fairy  mirror  the  flower  held  up,  — 
He  saw  himself  in  her  brimming  cup. 

My  soul  is  like  that  flower  to-night, 

Watching  thy  pathway  through  the  sky, 
The  heaven  of  genius,  far  and  high, 

And  waiting  for  thy  smile  of  light 

To  pierce  the  shades  that  compass  her, 
Thy  meek  and  hidden  worshipper, 

To  where,  with  incense-breath  up-stealing, 

And  brimming  o'er  with  the  dew  of  feeling, 
That  soul-flower  faintly  mirrors  thee, 
Thou  risen  star  of  Poesy  ! 


TO  THE  WIFE  OF  A  POET. 

0  FAITHFUL  friend  !  O  gentle  wife  ! 

1  know  I  may  not  add  to-day 
One  drop  unto  thy  "  wine  of  life," 

Of  love,  or  happiness,  or  pride  ; 
I  know  't  is  only  mine  to  lay 

One  rose-leaf  on  the  mantling  tide. 


VALENTINES.  121 

O,  what  without  thy  sunny  face, 

Lit  with  the  day-spring  from  above, 
Were  thine  abode  of  song  and  grace,  — 
Art's  fairy  realm,  joy's  resting-place,  — 
Where  now  a  sacred  trio  meet, 
Power,  innocence,  contentment  sweet, 
Genius  and  infancy  and  love  ! 


TO  THE  WIFE  OF  AN  ARTIST. 

How  like  soft  skies  that  bend  at  even 

Italia's  vales  above, 
Thy  spirit's  pure  and  tranquil  heaven, 

Illumed  with  stars  of  love  ! 
Thy  chosen  one,  no  longer  bound 

Art's  pilgrim,  o'er  the  sea, 
With  Nature's  self  at  home,  hath  found 

His  Italy  in  thee. 


122 


VALENTINES. 


TO   G.  H.  C. 


As  Linnseus  wrote  his  name  in  flowers, 

Thus,  Artist,  shall  it  ever  be 
That  lily  brows,  carnation  cheeks, 

And  rose-bud  lips  shall  speak  of  thee  ! 
As  students  of  the  stars  have  written 

Their  names  upon  the  midnight  skies, 
Thus  thou  thy  living  name  hast  traced 

On  beauty's  heaven,  in  starry  eyes  ! 


TO   MR.  INMAN. 

MOORE  tells  us,  in  his  dulcet  lays, 
A  damsel,  in  the  good  old  days, 
Fell  most  imprudently  in  love 
With  some  stray  seraph  from  above  ; 
And  once  —  so  runs  the  tragic  story  — 
This  youth  revealed  his  perfect  glory, 
Which,  bursting  forth  in  lurid  flashes, 
Consumed  that  beauteous  maid  to  ashes ! 

There  was  a  maid  of  modern  times, 
Who  warning  took  from  these  sad  rhymes, 


VALENTINES.  123 

And  dreaming  not  an  angel  might 

With  amorous  sighs  about  her  hover, 
And  asking  not,  and  caring  not, 

For  so  combustible  a  lover, 
In  life's  strange  drama  wisely  chose 

A  safe  and  less  ambitious  part, 
In  man  alone  sufficient  found 

For  fancy,  intellect,  and  heart. 


TO 


WE  never  met ;  yet  to  my  soul 

Thy  name  hath  been  a  voice  of  singing, 
And  ever  to  thy  glorious  lays 

The  echoes  of  my  heart  are  ringing. 

We  never  met ;  yet  is  thy  face, 
Thy  pictured  face,  before  me  now  ; 

Strangely,  like  life,  I  almost  see 

The  dark  curls  wave  upon  thy  brow  ! 

This  face  reveals  that  poet-life, 
Still  deepening,  still  rising  higher, 

A  breathing  from  thy  soul  of  song, 
A  glow  from  out  thy  heart  of  fire  ! 


124  VALENTINES. 

And  yet,  unlike  thy  portraiture 
I  would  thy  living  face  might  be, 

For  ever,  as  I  gaze  on  this. 

Thine  eyes  are  turned  away  from  me. 


TO    COUNT    . 

WE  need  not  to  be  told  thou  art 
Of  Rome's  own  glorious  race  ; 

We  hear  her  song  breathe  in  thy  voice, 
In  thy  form  behold  her  grace, 

And  her  pure  and  classic  beauty 
In  thy  rare  and  thoughtful  face. 

That  speaks  her  ancient  honor, 
Her  proud  immortal  dower  ; 

It  tells  of  her  sad  present, 

Yet  foretells  her  triumph  hour,  — 

Hath  the  grandeur  of  her  sorrow, 
And  the  glory  of  her  power. 


VALENTINES.  125 


TO   ONE   WHO   KNOWS. 

THEY  told  me,  when  I  knew  thee  first, 
Thou  wert  not  made  for  loving, 

That  next  St.  Valentine's  would  see 
Thy  truant  heart  a-roving  ;  — 

That  thou  wouldst  weary  of  my  love, 
Turn  from  me,  and  for  ever ! 

That  I  would  meekly  bow  and  weep, 
But  chide  the  rover  never. 

Ah  !  those  were  mournful  prophecies, 
To  cloud  the  sky  of  youth  ; 

And  thou  and  I,  we  little  thought 
So  soon  to  test  their  truth  ! 

We  are  that  sad  truth's  witnesses, 
Proofs  manifest  and  living,  — 

Thou  art  for -getting  this  poor  heart, 
And  I  am  still  for -giving  ! 


126  VALENTINES. 


TO  HELEN  IRVING. 

AGAIN  thou  comest  like  a  star  of  brightness, — 
As  pure  and  tender,  as  serene  and  fair ; 

I  hear  thy  tones  of  love,  or  joyous  lightness  ! 
I  breathe  thy  presence  like  a  balmy  air ! 

They  say  that  genius'  sacred  fount  is  gushing 
Within  thy  soul  of  tenderness  arid  truth  ; 

That  glory's  sunlight  even  now  is  flushing 
The  still  and  dewy  morning  of  thy  youth. 

Thou  little  dreamest  that  perchance  above  thee 
Fame's  envied  chaplet  trembles  in  the  air, 

While  crowned  with  roses  in  the  hearts  that  love  thee, 
While  homage  sweet  is  offered  to  thee  there. 

Thy  soul  is  loveliest  ere  fashion  round  it 

Her  robe  of  cold  and  glittering  thraldom  flings,  — 

Ere  worldly  art,  with  gilded  chains,  hath  bound  it, 
Ere  brushed  the  gold-dust  from  its  fairy  wings. 


VALENTINES.  127 

TO  A  POETESS. 

A  NAMELESS  power  lives  in  thy  verse, 

A  gleam  of  things  divine  ! 
And  with  meek  looks  and  clasped  hands 

My  spirit  bows  to  thine. 

Now  beams  thy  soul-light  on  the  heart, 

Like  morn-rise,  soft  and  tender ; 
And  now  in  wild,  impassioned  fire 

Breaks  forth  with  startling  splendor. 

We  say,  when  gently  steal  along 

Thy  light,  love-breathing  numbers, 
That  Song's  sweet  angel  whispering  bends 

Above  thy  nightly  slumbers. 

Anon  there  peals  from  out  thy  lays 

A  voice  so  clear  and  bold, 
That  we  might  almost  dream  thou  wert 

A  prophetess  of  old. 

The  eye  glows  with  unwonted  fire, 

The  soul's  still  depths  are  stirred  ; 
The  heart  leaps  to  intenser  life 

At  every  burning  word  ! 


128  VALENTINES. 

We  see  on  swift,  untiring  wing 

The  morning  lark  uprise, 
Until  his  tuneful  gush  of  joy 

Floats  faintly  down  the  skies. 

Thus  thou  art  rising  glad  and  free, 
Thy  wild  song  downward  flinging, 

Up  toward  the  morning  gates  of  heaven 
Thy  flight  of  glory  winging. 


129 


TO  THE   HON.   D.   P.   KING, 


WITH  AN  AUTOGRAPH. 


A  CHILD  of  the  Republic, 
I  have  never  bowed  the  knee 

To  coronets  or  sceptres, 
To  rank  or  royalty  : 

But  when  a  royal  nature, 
Crowned  with  a  royal  name, 

Devotes  to  holy  freedom 
His  genius  and  his  fame, 

O,  then  my  soul  forgets  her  pride, 
Then  to  the  winds  I  flins: 

o 

My  democratic  scruples, 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing  ; 

My  spirit  yields  allegiance, 

And  prays,  God  save  thee,  King  ! 


130 


DARKENED    HOURS. 


WITH  folded  arms  and  drooping  head 
I  stand,  my  heart's  blest  goal  unwon. 

My  souPs  high  purpose  unattained  ; 
But  life,  but  life  goes  hurrying  on  ! 


I  pause  and  linger  by  the  way, 

With  fainting  heart  and  slumbering  powers, 
And  still  the  grand,  immortal  height 

Which  I  would  climb  before  me  towers. 

And  still,  far  up  its  rugged  steep, 
The  poet-laurel  mocks  mine  eyes  ; 

While  sweetly  on  its  summit  wave 
The  fadeless  Bowers  of  Paradise. 


DARKENED    HOURS.  131 

My  voice  is  silent,  though  I  mark 
The  toil  and  woe  of  human  lives,  — 

The  beauty  of  that  human  love, 

That  meekly  suffers,  trusts,  and  strives. 

My  voice  is  silent,  though  I  see 

The  captive  pining  in  his  cell, 
And  hear  the  exiled  patriot  breathe, 

O'er  the  wild  seas,  his  sad  farewell. 

No  song  of  joy  is  on  my  lip, 

While  Freedom's  banners  are  unfurled, 
And  Freedom's  fearless  battle-shouts 

And  triumph-lays  ring  round  the  world. 

No  glow  of  rapturous  feeling  comes 
To  flush  my  cheek,  or  light  mine  eye, 

While  golden  splendors  of  the  morn 
Are  kindling  all  the  eastern  sky. 

Nor  when,  while  dews  weigh  down  the  rose, 

I  read  amid  the  shadowy  even 
That  bright  Evangel  of  our  God, 

Whose  words  are  worlds,  the  starry  heaven. 


132  DARKENED    HOURS. 

Yet  was  my  nature  formed  to  feel 
The  gladness  and  the  grief  of  life, 

To  thrill  at  Freedom's  name,  and  joy 
In  all  her  brave  and  holy  strife  ; 

To  tremble  with  the  perfect  sense 
Of  all  things  lovely  or  sublime,  — 

The  glory  of  the  midnight  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  time. 

God-written  thoughts  are  in  my  heart, 

And  deep  within  my  being  lie 
Eternal  truths  and  glorious  hopes, 

Which  I  must  speak  before  I  die. 

Who  shall  restore  the  early  faith, 

The  fresh,  strong  heart,  the  utterance  bold  ? 
Ah,  when  may  be  this  weary  weight 

From  off  my  groaning  spirit  rolled  ? 

To  Thee  I  turn,  before  whose  throne 
No  earnest  suppliant  bows  in  vain  ; 

My  spirit's  faint  and  lonely  cry 

Thou  wilt  not  in  thy  might  disdain. 


DARKENED    HOURS.  133 

Awake  in  me  a  truer  life,  — 

A  soul  to  labor  and  aspire  ! 
Touch  Thou  my  mortal  lips,  0  God, 

With  thine  own  truth's  immortal  fire ! 

Be  with  me  in  my  darkened  hours  ; 

Bind  up  my  bruised  heart  once  more  ; 
The  grandeur  of  a  lofty  hope 

About  my  lowly  being  pour  ! 

Give  strength  unto  my  spirit's  wing, 

Give  light  unto  my  spirit's  eye, 
And  let  the  sunshine  of  thy  smile 

Upon  my  upward  pathway  lie  ! 

Thus,  when  my  soul  in  thy  pure  faith 
Hath  grown  serene,  and  free,  and  strong, 

Thy  greatness  may  exalt  my  thought, 
Thy  love  make  beautiful  my  song. 


134 


THE    DREAM. 


LAST  night,  my  love,  I  dreamed  of  thee, 
Yet 't  was  no  dream  Elysian  : 

Draw  closer  to  my  breast,  dear  Blanche, 
The  while  I  tell  the  vision. 

Methought  that  I  had  left  thee  long, 
And,  home  in  haste  returning, 

My  heart,  lip,  cheek,  with  love  and  joy 
And  wild  impatience  burning,  — 

I  called  thee  through  the  silent  house ; 

But  here,  at  last,  I  found  thee, 
Where,  deathly  still  and  ghostly  white, 

The  curtains  fell  around  thee. 


THE    DREAM.  135 

Dead  I — dead  thou  wert !     Cold  lay  that  form, 

In  rarest  beauty  moulded, 
And  meekly,  o'er  thy  still,  white  breast 

The  snowy  hands  were  folded. 

Methought  thy  couch  was  fitly  strewn 

With  many  a  fragrant  blossom  ; 
Fresh  violets  thy  fingers  clasped, 

And  rose-buds  decked  thy  bosom  : 

But  thine  eyes,  so  like  young  violets, 

Might  smile  upon  me  never  — 
And  the  rose-bloom  from  thy  cheek  and  lip 

Had  fled  away  for  ever  ! 

I  raised  thee  lovingly,  thy  head 

Against  my  bosom  leaning, 
And  called  thy  name,  and  spoke  to  thee 

In  words  of  tenderest  meaning. 

I  sought  to  warm  thee  at  my  breast, 
My  arms  close  round  thee  flinging  ; 

To  breathe  my  life  into  thy  lips, 
With  kisses  fond  and  clinging. 


136  THE    DREAM. 

0  hour  of  fearful  agony ! 

In  vain  my  frenzied  pleading  ! 
Thy  dear  voice  hushed,  thy  kind  eye  closed, 
My  lonely  grief  unheeding  ! 

Pale  wert  thou  as  the  lily-buds 
Twined  'mid  thy  raven  tresses, 

And  cold  thy  lip  and  still  thy  heart 
To  all  my  wild  caresses  ! 
***** 

1  woke,  amid  the  autumn  night, 

To  hear  the  rain  descending, 
And  roar  of  waves  and  howl  of  winds 
In  stormy  concert  blending. 

But,  O,  my  waking  joy  was  morn, 
From  heaven's  own  portals  flowing  ! 

And  the  summer  of  thy  living  love 
Was  round  about  me  glowing ! 

V 

I  woke,  —  ah,  blessedness !  —  to  feel 
Thy  white  arms  round  me  wreathing,  — 

To  hear,  amid  the  lonely  night, 
Thy  calm  and  gentle  breathing  ! 


THE    DREAM.  137 

I  bent  above  tby  rest  till  morn, 

With  many  a  whispered  blessing  ; 
Soft,  timid  kisses  on  thy  lips 

And  blue-veined  eyelids  pressing. 

While  thus,  from  slumber's  shadowy  realm, 

Thy  truant  soul  recalling, 
Thou  couldst  not  know  whence  sprang  the  tears 

Upon  thy  forehead  falling. 

And,  O,  thine  eyes'  sweet  wonderment, 

When  thou  didst  ope  them  slowly, 
To  mark  mine  own  bent  on  thy  face 

In  rapture  deep  and  holy  ! 

Thou  couldst  not  know,  till  I  had  told 

That  dream  of  fearful  warning, 
How  much  of  heaven  was  in  my  words,  — 

"  God  bless  thee,  love,  —  good  morning  !  " 


138 


THE   FIRST  DOUBT. 


My  heart  is  chilled  with  sudden  fear, 

And  heavy  on  my  spirit  lies 
The  doubt  that  breathed  from  thy  harsh  tones, 

And  looked  from  thy  reproachful  eyes. 
And  seest  thou  not  love's  mightiest  spell, 

Its  pure  and  perfect  trust,  is  broken, 
By  the  cold  thought  thy  heart  hath  nursed, 

And  the  cold  words  thy  lips  have  spoken  ? 

Ah,  thou  of  little  faith  !  —  Came  then, 

No  gentle  memories  to  thee  ? 
No  earnest  tone,  no  still  caress, 

No  smile,  no  tear,  to  plead  for  me  ? 
Had  all  the  love  of  all  our  past 

No  voices  calling  through  thy  heart  ? 
Shone  not  mine  eyes  upon  thy  soul 

A  light  to  bid  all  clouds  depart  ? 


THE    FIRST    DOUBT.  139 

Though  smiles  and  fond  endearing  names 

Upon  our  lips  once  more  may  live, 
Yet  love  hath  ceased  to  be  divine 

When  those  who  love  must  say,  "  Forgive." 
Though  morning  skies  are  o'er  us  still, 

Yet,  sadder  than  the  shades  of  night, 
The  shadow  of  thy  first  dark  thought 

Is  hiding  all  our  heaven  from  sight. 

We  drink  no  more  at  Hope's  clear  springs, 

But  bitter  draughts  of  vain  regret ; 
Young  Love  who  led  us  forth  to  life, 

Rose-crowned  and  joyous,  leads  us  yet, — 
But  tearful  now  his  weary  eyes ; 

Faint  smiles  around  his  sweet  lips  play, 
And  red  drops  falling  from  his  wounds 

Stain  all  the  flowers  along  his  way. 

Beware,  O  dearest,  lest  some  shaft 

May  pierce  his  gentle  heart  at  last, 
And  the  dim  light  of  his  sad  smile 

No  longer  on  our  path  be  cast ! 
Lest,  parting  at  his  early  grave, 

With  summer's  perished  blooms  o'erstrown, 
We  go  forth  through  the  world's  wide  waste, 

And  tread  its  weary  ways  alone  ! 


140 


THE   MIDNIGHT   VIGIL. 

BY    THE    SICK-BED    OF   A   MOTHER. 

THEY  say  a  tempest  is  abroad  to-night ; 

They  tell  me  of  its  fearful  sights  and  sounds, — 

Of  driving  rains,  the  rush  and  roar  of  winds, 

The  plunge  of  torrents  o'er  the  mountain  side, 

The  burst  of  thunder,  and  the  lurid  track 

Of  the  quick  lightning,  leaping  down  the  skies  ! 

But  deeper  midnight  and  a  colder  gloom 
Enwrap  my  life,  —  within  my  bosom  reigns 
A  wilder,  sterner  strife,  —  while  bows  my  head, 
Bared  to  the  peltings  of  a  mightier  storm  ! 

The  hour  is  nigh  at  hand,  —  the  hour  that  oft 
Darkened  my  childhood's  dreams  in  nights  of  fear ; 
Whose  icy  thought  had  e'er  strange  power  to  chill 
The  bounding  pulse  of  joy,  since  first  my  lips 
Essayed  to  lisp  the  most  beloved  name. 


THE    MIDNIGHT    VIGIL.  141 

Vainly  my  soul  hath  struggled  ;  —  from  her  clasp 
Life's  earliest,  dearest  joy  is  torn  away  ! 
Her  deepest,  tenderest,  thrice-blessed  love, 
A  holy  lamp  within  a  sacred  shrine, 
Is  dying  out  upon  this  midnight  air ! 

O  soul,  so  strong  with  hope  and  high  resolve, 
Brave  and  exultant  once,  but  shrinking,  faint, 
Now,  while  the  wine-press  of  a  mortal  grief 
Thy  steps  are  treading  painfully  and  slow ! 
0  heart  that  once  unfolded  into  life, 
Flower-like  in  gladness,  lifting  up  toward  heaven 
A  chalice  for  its  sunshine  and  its  dews,  — 
That  drank  in  freshness  with  the  morning  hours, 
And  swayed  to  pleasant  airs  the  livelong  day, 
Now,  bruised  and  broken,  bleed  thyself  away, 
Earth  cold  beneath,  and  heaven  all  dark  above  ! 

This  voice  hath  grown  a  stranger  to  mine  ear ; 
Faltering  and  sad  its  tones  that  lately  rung 
Such  merry  changes,  —  and  the  eyes  that  smiled, 
And  looked  contentment  from  their  deepest  depths, 
Grow  wild,  and  darken  with  a  great  despair. 

Silent  I  sit  amid  the  waste  of  grief, 
The  desolation,  the  tempestuous  gloom, 


142  THE    MIDNIGHT    VIGIL. 

The  deep  convulsion  of  my  inmost  life  ; 
Save  when  a  prayer  of  sternest  agony, 
Like  some  strong  bird,  goes  forth  amid  the  strife, 
Through  storm,  and  darkness,  and  cold,  heavy  clouds, 
Battling  its  way  toward  heaven,  —  its  weary  way, 
Where,  'mid  the  conflict  soon  overcome,  it  falls, 
Dashed  toward  the  earth  by  some  relentless  power. 
But  peace,  my  soul  !  —  He  liveth  yet,  who  looked 
On  woman's  grief  and  "  wept,"  —  e'en  while  his  voice 
Rebuked  the  worm,  and  called  the  wasting  dead 
In  life  and  freshness  forth  into  the  day ; 
Who  took  the  Jewish  maiden  by  the  hand, 
And,  with  one  word,  gave  back  to  mortal  life 
A  spirit  wandering  in  the  deathless  clime, 
To  lose  the  memory  of  her  hour  of  heaven 
In  the  sweet  sadness  of  an  earthly  lot. 

Once  more  my  soul  lifts  up  her  bitter  cry, 
The  fast  outpouring  of  her  grief  and  fear ! 
Once  more  falls  at  thy  feet,  and  grasps  thy  robe, 
And  will  not  let  thee  go,  Master  of  Life  ! 

O,  by  the  memory  of  her  love,  whose  eyes 
Looked  tender  adoration  on  Thee  first, 
Who  warmed  Thee  at  her  bosom  when  the  airs 
Of  the  first  morning  breathed  upon  thy  form, 


THE    MIDNIGHT    VIGIL.  143 

And  Bethlehem's  dews  made  coolness  round  thy  rest! 

O,  by  that  love  still  faithful  when  the  child 

Put  on  the  name  and  presence  of  the  God, 

And  went  forth  bearing  on  his  mighty  heart 

The  crime,  and  death,  and  sorrow  of  a  world ! 

Stilt  true  'mid  want,  and  wrong,  and  jeering  scorn, 

And  hate's  mad  tempest  beating  on  thy  life, 

To  that  dread  hour  when  heaven  was  veiled  in  gloom, 

And  nature  trembled  and  cried  out  in  fear  ! 

O,  by  thy  human  love  divinely  sweet, 

Which  yearned  for  her  caress  to  comfort  Thee 

In  the  long  exile  from  thy  heavenly  home, — 

Which  in  the  last  hour  lived  upon  thy  lips 

In  words  of  tenderness,  and  from  thine  eyes 

Struggled  through  mists  of  death  in  mute  farewell  ! 

0,  by  thy  love,  thy  sorrow,  and  thy  pain, 

By  all  the  tears  Thou  'st  shed  for  mortal  woe, 

Let  the  imploring  passion  of  my  soul 

Come  up  before  Thee  at  this  midnight  hour! 

Break  not  "  the  bruised  reed,"  Most  Merciful ! 

Stay  Thou  the  bleeding  of  the  wounded  heart ! 

Give  back  its  dearest  treasure  even  now  ! 

Draw  near,  O  Lord  of  Life,  and  gently  take 

The  hand  of  our  beloved  in  thine  own, 

And  say  to  her,  "  Arise  !  " 


144 


THE    MAY    MORNING. 


THE  morning  brightness  showereth  down  from  heaven  ; 

The  morning  freshness  goeth  up  from  earth ; 

The  morning  gladness  shineth  everywhere  ! 

Soon  as  the  sun,  in  glorious  panoply, 

Parting  the  crimson  curtains  of  his  tent, 

Begins  the  day's  proud  march,  the  voice  of  song 

And  flush  of  beauty  live  along  his  way ! 

The  maiden  flowers,  whom  all  the  dreamy  night 

The  starlight  vainly  wooed,  with  wan,  cold  smile, 

Blush  as  his  presence  breathes  upon  their  bloom, 

And  feel  his  kiss  through  all  their  glowing  veins, 

And  shake  the  night-dew  from  their  joyous  heads, 

And  pour  thick  perfumes  on  the  golden  air. 

The  trees  bow  at  his  coming,  and  look  brave 
In  all  the  richness  of  their  new  attire ; 
The  Aspen's  shining  leaves  give  back  his  smile, 


THE    MAY    MORNING.  145 

Dancing  in  glee,  yet  whispering  in  awe, 
Like  bashful  maidens  at  some  gorgeous  fete, 
Graced  by  a  monarch's  presence  ;  aged  Oaks 
Grow  young  again  at  their  stout,  loyal  hearts  ; 
The  stately  brotherhood  of  mountain  Pines 
Give  forth  a  solemn  greeting,  like  a  band 
Of  stern  old  monks,  in  sombre  vestments  clad. 
Like  Ganymede,  the  Magnolia  stands, 
Graceful  and  fair ;  his  silver  chalice  lifts, 
Brimmed  with  night's  nectar,  to  the  thirsty  god. 
The  garden  Lilac,  rich  in  purple  bloom, 
Scatters  her  royal  largess  far  and  wide  ; 
And  the  warm  bosom  of  the  opening  Rose 
Pants  out  its  odorous  sighs  to  the  "  sweet  south," 
That  soft-plumed,  low-voiced  rover  from  afar, 
Whose  wings  are  heavy  with  the  perfume  stolen 
From  the  cleft  hearts  of  his  forsaken  loves. 
The  Mignonette  breathes  tenderly  and  deep, 
The  pure  home-fragrance  of  a  humble  heart ; 
And  even  the  tiny  Violet  can  make 
Her  little  circle  sweet  as  love  ;  the  Vine, 
Swaying  in  mid-air  to  the  frolic  wind, 
Rains  scented  blossoms  on  the  clover  tufts, 
And  cheerful  daisies,  lighting  up  the  grass. 
The  Robin  and  the  Oriole  awake 

10 


146  THE    MAY   MORNING. 

With  the  first  sunshine  glancing  on  their  wings, 
To  thrill  the  young  leaves  quivering  round  their  nests 
With  glad,  wild  gushes  of  exulting  song,  — 
To  pour  swift  waves  of  clear,  delicious  sound, 
Fresh  and  rejoicing,  on  the  morning  air. 

The  lake  looks  up  to  heaven,  and  smiles  to  see 
Those  vast,  high  courts  with  his  own  color  hung  ; 
The  waves,  with  whispers  and  low  laughter,  steal 
Along  the  shore,  to  meet  the  honeyed  kiss 
Of  the  pale  lilies,  drooping  faint  with  love. 
Like  some  young  mountain  shepherd,  whose  fair  maid, 
Far  down  the  vale,  upon  a  gala  morn, 
Awaits  his  coming,  the  impetuous  stream 
Leaps  down  the  hill-side,  singing  as  it  goes. 

Yet,  O  fair  sky  !  O  green  and  flowery  earth  ! 
Your  morning  gladness  in  this  bright  May-time, 
With  visible  glow  and  music-utterance, 
Is  all  imperfect,  faint,  and  dim,  beside 
The  viewless,  voiceless,  unimagined  joy 
That  maketh  bloom  and  sunshine  in  my  heart, 
That  fills  my  soul  with  hopes  more  bright  than  flowers, 
And  thoughts  far  sweeter  than  the  voice  of  birds ! 


THE   MAY    MORNING.  147 

The  arctic  winter  which  closed  round  me  long, 
And  hung  all  heaven  with  tempests,  hath  gone  by  ; 
The  fear,  the  sorrow,  and  the  wild  despair 
Which  made  a  darkness  deeper  than  the  night, 
And  storm  that  mocked  the  loud  and  maddened  strife 
Of  the  roused  elements,  —  all,  all  gone  by  ! 
A  sky  of  love  is  bending  o'er  me  now, 
And  airs  serene  are  breathing  round  my  paths  : 
The  rich  midsummer  of  my  life  is  here ! 

O  Thou,  whose  hand  rolled  back  the  clouds  of  fear, 
Whose  voice   spake   "peace"    to  sorrow's  whelming 

deeps, 

And  in  mid-heaven  stayed  the  shadowy  wing 
Of  death's  swift  angel,  —  what  meet  offering 
Hath  my  glad  soul  to  lay  upon  thy  shrine  ? 
Prayers  and  rapt  vigils  ?  or  song's  votive  wreaths, 
Dewy  with  grateful  tears  ?  a  pilgrim's  vows  ? 
Saint-like  observance  of  all  sacred  rites 
And  holy  days  ?     Not  these,  not  these,  my  soul ; 
But  the  sweet  offering  of  a  loving  heart,  — 
But  the  rich  offering  of  a  free-born  mind, — 
But  the  long  offering  of  an  earnest  life. 


148 


WAR-SONG  OF  THE  MAGYARS. 


A  BATTLE-SHOUT  for  Hungary 

Once  more  shall  wake  the  day,  — 

A  joyful  summons  to  the  brave, 
To  rally  for  the  fray  ; 

To  gird  her  round,  and,  with  their  swords, 
Make  lightning  on  her  way ! 

The  shout  that  each  bold  Magyar  heart 
With  war's  fierce  rapture  fills, 

The  cry  that  in  the  traitor's  veins 
The  coward  current  chills,  — 

Let  it  ring  up  from  the  valleys 
And  roll  along  the  hills  ! 


WAR-SONG    OF    THE    MAGYARS.  149 

Let  it  sound  amid  the  mountain  land, 

That  mighty  gathering  cry,  — 
Go  up  from  steep,  and  crag,  and  cliff, 

Clear,  terrible,  and  high, 
Till  the  vultures  and  the  eagles 

Scream  back  their  hoarse  reply  ! 

Like  the  mingling  of  all  fearful  sounds 

Of  vengeance  and  of  woe,  — 
Like  the  rush  of  fire,  the  roar  of  floods, 

When  wintry  tempests  blow,  — 
Like  the  thunder  of  the  avalanche, 

It  shall  sweep  against  the  foe  ! 

God  of  the  nations,  Thou  didst  hear 

Poor  Hungary's  patient  prayer, 
From  the  prison  of  her  bondage 

And  the  night  of  her  despair, 
When  the  groanings  of  her  spirit 

Were  burdening  all  the  air  ! 

Thou  didst  flash  upon  her  darkness 

A  great  and  sudden  light ; 
Didst  break  her  chains,  and  lead  her  forth, 

And  gird  her  for  the  fight 


150  WAR-SONG    OF    THE    MAGYARS. 

With  the  weapons  of  thine  anger, 
And  the  armour  of  thy  might !        .  • 

Once  more  be  thy  victorious  strength 
On  mortal  hearts  outpoured  ; 

Take  Thou  the  blood-guilt  from  our  strife, 
And  sanctify  the  sword 

That  strikes  for  Freedom  !     For  the  right, 
Make  bare  thine  arm,  O  Lord ! 

Bless  Thou  our  banners,  till  their  folds 
On  Freedom's  ramparts  wave, 

And  shade  the  patriot's  holy  rest ; 
O,  strengthen,  guide,  and  save 

Our  PROPHET-HERO  to  the  end,  — 
God  of  the  struggling  brave  ! 


151 


THE   POET'S  HOME. 


WE  have  struggled  up  the  hill-side, 
We  stand  upon  its  brow, — 

O,  lovely  as  a  dream  of  heaven, 
The  scene  before  us  now  ! 

There  singeth  past  the  woodlands, 
Where  the  listening  aspens  quiver, 

There  shineth  through  the  meadows, 
The  beautiful,  bright  river. 

And,  farther  off,  old  Ocean 

Is  lying  at  his  rest, 
With  the  warm  and  gentle  sunlight 

Asleep  upon  his  breast. 


THE  POET'S  HOME. 

But  low  down  in  the  village 
Is  a  cottage,  white  and  small, 

And  to  me  that  cottage  seemeth 
More  glorious  than  all ! 

From  out  its  portal  floweth 

A  tide  of  minstrelsy, 
That  rolleth  as  a  river, 

And  soundeth  as  the  sea  ! 

If  in  storm-shocks  meet  its  waters, 
Or  in  summer  quiet  glide, 

A  sun  that  knows  no  setting 
Smiles  on  the  crystal  tide  ;  — 

A  sun  across  whose  brightness 
No  lightest  cloud  is  driven,  — 

The  constant,  kind  approval, 
The  blessed  love  of  Heaven. 


153 


A  FRAGMENT. 


THOU  darest  not  love  me  !  —  thou  canst  only  see 

The  great  gulf  set  between  us.     Hadst  thou  love, 

'T  would  bear  thee  o'er  it  on  a  wing  of  fire  ! 

Wilt  put  from  thy  faint  lip  the  mantling  cup, 

The  draught  thou  'st  prayed  for  with  divinest  thirst, 

For  fear  a  poison  in  the  chalice  lurks  ? 

Wilt  thou  be  barred  from  thy  soul's  heritage, 

The  power,  the  rapture,  and  the  crown  of  life, 

By  the  poor  guard  of  danger  set  about  it  ? 

I  tell  thee  that  the  richest  flowers  of  heaven 

Bloom  on  the  brink  of  darkness.     Thou  hast  marked 

How  sweetly  o'er  the  beetling  precipice 

Hangs  the  young  June-rose  with  its  crimson  heart,  — 

And  wouldst  not  sooner  peril  life  to  win 

That  royal  flower,  that  thou  mightst  proudly  wear 


154 


A    FRAGMENT. 


The  trophy  on  thy  breast,  than  idly  pluck 

A  thousand  meek-faced  daisies  by  the  way  ? 

How  dost  thou  shudder  at  Love's  gentle  tones, 

As  though  a  serpent's  hiss  were  in  thine  ear, 

Albeit  thy  heart  throbs  echo  to  each  word  ! 

Why  wilt  not  rest,  O  weary  wanderer, 

Upon  the  couch  of  flowers  Love  spreads  for  thee, 

On  banks  of  sunshine  ?     Voices  silver-toned 

Shall  lull  thy  soul  with  strange,  wild  harmonies,  — 

Rock  thee  to  sleep  upon  the  waves  of  sono-  ; 

Hope  shall  watch  o'er  thee  with  her  breath  of  dreams  ; 

Joy  hover  near,  impatient  for  thy  waking, 

Her  quick  wing  glancing  through  the  fragrant  air. 

Why  dost  thou  pause  hard  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate, 
Why  turn  thee  from  the  paradise  of  youth, 
Where  love's  immortal  summer  blooms  and  glows, 
And  wrap  thyself  in  coldness  as  a  shroud  ? 
Perchance  't  is  well  for  Ihee,  —  yet  does  the  flame 
That  glows  with  heat  intense,  and  mounts  toward  heaven, 
As  fitly  emblem  holiest  purity, 
As  the  still  snow-wreath  on  the  mountain's  brow. 

Thou  darest  not  say  I  love,  and  yet  thou  lovest, 
And  think'st  to  crush  the  mighty  yearning  down, 


A    FRAGMENT.  155 

That  in  thy  spirit  shall  upspring  for  ever ! 

Twinned  with  thy  soul,  it  lived  in  thy  first  thoughts, — 

It  haunted  with  strange  dreams  thy  boyish  years, 

And  colored  with  its  deep,  empurpled  hue 

The  passionate  aspirations  of  thy  youth. 

Go,  take  from  June  her  roses,  —  from  her  streams 

The  bubbling  fountain-springs,  —  from  life  take  love,  — 

Thou  hast  its  all  of  sweetness,  bloom,  and  strength. 

There  is  a  grandeur  in  the  soul  that  dares 
To  live  out  all  the  life  God  lit  within,  — 
That  battles  with  the  passions  hand  to  hand, 
And  wears  no  mail,  and  hides  behind  no  shield, — 
That  plucks  its  joy  in  the  shadow  of  death's  wing,  — 
That  drains  with  one  deep  draught  the  wine  of  life, 
And  that  with  fearless  foot  and  heaven-turned  eye 
May  stand  upon  a  dizzy  precipice, 
High  o'er  the  abyss  of  ruin,  and  not  fall! 


156 


TO   ONE    AFAR. 


O  STRONG  and  pure  of  soul !  —  O  earnest-hearted  ! 

Like  stranger-pilgrims  at  some  way-side  shrine 
Have  we  two  met,  and  mingled  faith,  and  parted,— 

Thy  pathway  leading  far  away  from  mine. 

The  soul  of  ancient  song  is  round  thee  swelling, 
To  triumph-marches  leading  on  the  hours ; 

Thy  life  hath  templed  shades,  where  gods  are  dwelling, 
Where  founts  Castalian  play  among  the  flowers. 

But  faintly  may  the  voices  of  the  ages 

Come  to  my  yearning  but  imperfect  sense,  — 

The  strength  of  heroes  and  the  lore  of  sages, 
The  fire  of  song,  the  storm  of  eloquence. 


TO    ONE    AFAR.  157 

Thy  thoughts,  their  grand  vibrations  far  out-flinging, 
Like  church-tower  bells  ring  out  the  morning  chime, 

While  flow  my  numbers  like  the  gleeful  singing 
Of  peasant  maidens  at  the  vintage-time. 

Grandeur  and  power  are  shrined  within  thy  spirit ; 

It  moves  in  deeps  and  joys  in  storm  and  night,  — 
While  mine,  of  simpler  mould,  may  but  inherit 

The  love  of  all  things  beautiful  and  bright. 

Truth's  earnest  seeker  thou,  —  I  fancy's  rover  : 

Thy  life  is  like  a  river  deep  and  wide  ; 
I  but  the  light-winged  wild-bird  passing  over, 

One  moment  mirrored  in  the  rushing  tide. 

Thus  are  we  parted,  —  thou  still  onward  hasting, 
Pouring  the  great  flood  of  that  life  along ; 

While  I  on  sunny  slopes  am  careless  wasting 
The  little  summer  of  my  time  of  song. 


158 


AN   OFFERING    TO   ANNA. 


I  SEND  this  ring  of  braided  hair, 

A  simple  gift,  to  thee, 
One  more  fond  pledge  of  perfect  trust, 

And  perfect  peace,  from  me. 

Thou  'It  wear  it  for  our  dear  love's  sake, 

So  fresh  and  pure  and  strong, 
Far  sweeter  than  the  dreams  of  fame, 

Of  romance,  or  of  song. 

And  when  snows  fall,  or  spring-flowers  wave, 

My  cold,  still  breast  above, 
Dear,  faithful  heart,  thou  'It  wear  it  then 

In  memory  of  our  love. 


AN    OFFERING    TO    ANNA.  159 

Bird  of  my  bosom  !  blessed  shape 

Of  joy  and  song  thou  art ; 
Sweet  soul  of  tenderness  and  truth, 

Soft  nestled  in  my  heart, 

Thou  say'st  that  heart  is  Poesy's  harp, 

A  lute  which  Pleasure  plays, 
And  Love's  own  dimpled  fingers  wake 

To  gay  or  mournful  lays. 

Then  grieve  not,  should  strains  sad  or  harsh 

Rise  sometimes  from  its  strings, 
When  thou  dost  jar  the  silver  chords 

With  the  fluttering  of  thy  wings. 


160 


A  LAY 


THE  glorious  queen  of  heaven,  who  flings 
Her  royal  radiance  round  me  now, 
As  with  clasped  hands  and  upturned  brow 

I  watch  her  pathway  fair  and  free, 
Is  not  so  silvery  with  the  light 
She  pours  o'er  darkened  earth  to-night 
As  in  the  gentle  thoughts  she  brings 
Of  thee,  dear  love,  of  thee  ! 

The  night-wind  trembling  round  the  rose, 
The  starlight  floating  on  the  river, 
The  fearful  aspen's  silvery  shiver, 

The  dew-drop  glistening  on  the  lea, 
Night's  pure  baptism  to  the  flowers,  — 
All,  all  bring  back  our  dear,"  lost  hours, 
Till  every  heart-string  thrills  and  glows 
For  thee,  dear  love,  for  thee  ! 


A    LAY.  161 

And  when  dawn  wakes  the  Earth  with  song, 
And  Nature's  heart,  so  hushed  to-night, 
Goes  leaping  in  the  morning  light,  — 

While  waves  flash  onward  to  the  sea,  — 
While  perfumed  dews  to  heaven  arise, — 
While  glory  flushes  o'er  the  skies,  — 
Still  through  my  soul  shall  sweet  thoughts  throng 
Of  thee,  dear  love,  of  thee  ! 

Ah,  thou  beloved,  whose  heart  hath  thrilled 
To  blessed  dreams  and  joys  with  mine, 
What  power  shall  change  thy  love  divine, 

Or  shut  its  presence  out  from  me,  — 
Since  all  bright  things,  from  flower  to  star, 
Its  types  and  sweet  reminders  are 
To  this  fond  heart,  this  soul  so  filled 
With  thee,  dear  love,  with  thee  ! 

We  part  not,  though  we  said  adieu. 

Since  first  thy  thoughts  chimed  in  with  mine, 
And  from  those  wondrous  eyes  of  thine 

A  heaven  of  love  looked  down  on  me, 
My  very  life  round  thine  is.poured, — 
Thy  words  within  my  soul  I  hoard,  — 
Still  true,  in  every  heart-throb  true, 
To  thee,  dear  love,  to  thee  ! 
11 


162 


CONSTANCE. 


THE  tropic  stars  are  looking  down 

Upon  the  midnight  deep  ; 
The  wind  blows  fresh,  as  on  our  course 

Right  gallantly  we  sweep  ; 
For  thee  I  wake,  O  fair  beloved  ! 

Far  o'er  the  flashing  foam, 
My  fears,  my  hopes,  my  tender  thoughts, 

Like  swift-winged  birds,  fly  home  ! 
Constance,  my  bride, 
My  heart's  dear  pride, 

Say,  is  it  well  with  thee  ? 

I  wake  from  dreams  that  some  dread  ill 
Hath  breathed  upon  thy  bloom,  — 

That  round  thy  ways  are  falling  fast 
The  cold  shades  of  the  tomb  ; 


CONSTANCE.  163 

I  wake  to  stretch  my  fond  arms  forth, 

In  grief  and  sudden  fear  ; 
To  weep,  to  call  upon  thy  name, 
Yet  know  thou  canst  not  hear ! 
Constance,  my  bride, 
My  heart's  dear  pride, 
Say,  is  it  well  with  thee  ? 

I  wake  to  traverse,  step  by  step, 

The  sweet  paths  of  our  past, 
Where  the  throb  of  bliss  first  woke  our  hearts, 

And  the  tide  of  life  ran  fast ; 
When  I  sunned  me,  through  enchanted  days, 

In  thy  beauty's  splendid  light  ; 
When  thy  love  was  with  me  in  my  sleep, 

And  hallowed  all  the  night. 
Constance,  my  bride, 
My  heart's  dear  pride, 

Say,  is  it  well  with  thee  ? 

O,  life  is  full,  O,  life  is  deep, 

O,  earth  is  fair  to  see,, 
A  beautiful  and  blessed  place, 

For  it  holdeth  love  and  thee  ! 


164  CONSTANCE. 

My  faith  in  heaven  and  in  thy  truth 

Are  one  for  evermore  ; 
I  read  thy  pure  soul,  and  believe,  — 
I  love  thee  and  adore. 

Constance,  my  bride, 
My  heart's  dear  pride, 
Say,  is  it  well  with  thee  ? 

The  beauty  of  life's  morning-time, 

The  day's  full  bloom  and  light, 
Art  thou  to  me  ;  and  when,  at  last, 

Comes  on  the  long,  chill  night, 
0,  I  will  crown  me  with  thy  love, 

And  arm  me  with  thy  faith, 
Breathe  out  thy  name  from  my  deep  heart, 

And  thus  go  down  to  death  ! 
Constance,  my  bride, 
My  heart's  dear  pride, 

Say,  is  it  well  with  thee  ? 

I  know  my  soul's  wild  longings 

Will  seek  thee  in  thy  rest, 
Where  thou  liest  with  a  thought  of  me 

Close  folded  to  thy  breast. 


CONSTANCE.  165 

And  I  will  fear  no  more,  —  thou  dwelPst 

In  the  angels'  gentle  care, 
And  the  ear  of  Heaven  low  bendeth 
To  the  meek  voice  of  thy  prayer. 
Constance,  my  bride, 
My  heart's  dear  pride, 
/  know  't  is  well  with  thee  ! 


166 


TO   ,   IN   ABSENCE. 


WHEN  first  we  met,  beloved,  rememberest  thou 
How  all  my  nature  was  athirst  and  faint  ? 

My  soul's  high  powers  lay  wasting  still  and  slow, 
While  my  sad  heart  sighed  forth  its  ceaseless  plaint. 

For  frowning  pride  life's  summer  waves  did  lock 
Away  from  light,  —  their  restless  murmuring  hushed  ; 

But  thou  didst  smite  the  cold,  defying  rock, 
And  full  and  fast  the  living  waters  gushed  ! 

0,  what  a  summer  glory  life  put  on  ! 

What  morning  freshness  those  swift  waters  gave, 
That  leaped  from  darkness  forth  into  the  sun, 

And  mirrored  heaven  in  every  smallest  wave  ! 

***** 


TO 


167 


The  cloud  that  darkened  long  our  sky  of  love, 
And  flung  a  shadow  o'er  life's  Eden  bloom, 

Hath  deepened  into  night,  around,  above, — 
But  night  beneficent  and  void  of  gloom,  — 

The  dews  of  peace  and  faith's  sweet  quiet  bringing, 
And  memory's  starlight,  as  joy's  sunlight  fades, 

While,  like  the  nightingale's  melodious  singing, 
The  voice  of  Hope  steals  out  amid  the  shades. 

Now  it  hath  come  and  gone,  the  shadowed  day, 
The  time  of  farewells  that  beheld  us  part, 

I  miss  thy  presence  from  my  side  alway,  — 
Thy  smile's  sweet  comfort  raining  on  my  heart. 

Yes,  we  are  parted.     Now  I  call  thy  name, 
And  listen  long,  but  no  dear  voice  replies  : 

I  miss  thine  earnest  praise,  thy  gentle  blame, 
And  the  mute  blessing  of  thy  loving  eyes. 

Yet  no,  not  parted.     Still  in  life  and  power 
Thy  spirit  cometh  over  wild  and  wave, 

Is  ever  near  me  in  the  trial-hour, 

A  ready  help,  a  presence  strong  arid  brave. 


168  TO    ,    IN    ABSENCE. 

Thy  love  breathes  o'er  me  in  the  winds  of  heaven, 
Floats  to  me  on  the  tides  of  morning  light, 

Descends  upon  me  in  the  calms  of  even, 
And  fills  with  music  all  the  dreamy  night. 

It  falleth  as  a  robe  of  pride  around  me, 

A  royal  vesture  rich  with  purple  gleams,  — 

It  is  the  glory  wherewith  life  hath  crowned  me, 
The  large  fulfilment  of  my  soul's  long  dreams  ! 

It  is  a  paean  drowning  notes  of  sadness, 
It  is  a  great  light  shutting  out  all  gloom, 

It  is  a  fountain  of  perpetual  gladness, 
It  is  a  garden  of  perpetual  bloom. 

But  to  thy  nature  pride  and  power  belong, 
And  death-defying  courage  ;  what  to  thee, 

With  thy  great  life,  thy  spirit  high  and  strong, 
May  my  one  love  in  all  its  fulness  be  ? 

An  inward  joy,  sharp  e'en  to  pain,  yet  dear 

As  thy  soul's  life,  —  a  warmth,  a  light  serene,  — 

A  low,  deep  voice  which  none  save  thou  may  hear,  • 
A  living  presence,  constant,  though  unseen. 


TO    ,    IN    ABSENCE.  169 

Yet  shalt  thou  fold  it  closer  to  thy  breast, 
In  the  dark  days,  when  other  loves  depart, 

And  when  thou  liest  down  for  the  long  rest, 
Then,  0  beloved,  't  will  sleep  upon  thy  heart ! 


170 


THE   GOLD-SEEKER. 


'T  WAS  upon  a  Southern  desert,  and  beneath  a  burning 

sky, 
That  a  pilgrim  to  the  gold-clime   sunk,   o'erwearied, 

down  to  die  ! 
He  was  young,  and  fair,  and  slender,  but  he  bore  a 

gallant  heart,  — 
Through  the  march  so  long  and  toilsome  he  had  bravely 

held  his  part. 
His  companions  round  him  gathered,  with  kind  word 

and  pitying  look, 
As  in  fever-thirst  he  panted,  like   "the  hart  for  the 

water-brook  "  ; 
While  their  last  cool  drops  outpouring  on  his  brow  and 

parched  lips, 
Sorrowed  they  to  mark  his  glances  growing  dim  with 

death's  eclipse. 


THE    GOLD-SEEKER. 

Turning  then,  and  onward  passing,  left  they  there  the 

dying  man, 
For  a  weary  way  to  westward  still  the  promised  river 

ran. 

One  there  was,  a  comrade  faithful,  who  the  longest 
lingered  there, 

While  he  wrung  his  hand  in  parting,  bidding  him  not 
yet  despair  ; 

For  they  would  return  at  morning,  from  the  river- 
banks,  he  said, 

And,  a  silken  scarf  unfolding,  laid  it  o'er  the  sufferer's 
head, 

Then,  full  often  backward  glancing,  took  the  weary 
march  again, 

Onward  pressing  toward  the  waters,  gleaming  far 
across  the  plain. 

Silent  lies  the  one  forsaken,  in  this  hour  of  pain  and 

fear, 
While  their  farewells  and  their  footsteps  die  upon  his 

failing  ear,  — 
With   the    withered    turf  his    death-couch,  'neath  the 

burning  heat  of  day, 
All    unhearing    and    unheeding,   for   his  soul   is   far 

away  ! 


172  THE   GOLD-SEEKER. 

In  the  dear  home  of  his  childhood,  in  a  pleasant  North 

ern  land, 
He  beholds  about  him  smiling  the  familiar  household 

band  ; 
Sees,  perchance,  his  father  coming  homeward  through 

the  twilight  gray, 
Listens  to  his  merry  brothers,  laughing  in  their  childish 


Feels  the  fond  arms  of  his  mother,  as  of  old,  about 

him  thrown, 
And  the  fair  cheek  of  his  sister  pressing  soft  against 

his  own  ! 
Or  he  strays  amid  the  moonlight,  in  a  cool  and  shad 

owy  grove, 
Looking  down  with  earnest  glances  into  eyes  that  look 

back  love  ! 
All  beloved  tones  are  calling  sweetly  through  his  heart 

again, 
And  its  dying  pulse  is  quickened  by  the  phantoms  of 

his  brain  ! 
And   beloved   names    he    murmurs,  while   his  bosom 

heaves  and  swells, 
For  in  dreams  again  he  liveth  through  his  partings  and 

farewells  ! 


THE    GOLD-SEEKER.  173 

Slowly  sinks  the  sun, — night's  shadows  round  the 

lonely  pilgrim  spread,  — 
While  the  rising  night-winds  gently  lift  the  light  scarf 

from  his  head, 
And  the  soft  and  pitying  moonbeams  glance  upon  his 

forehead  fair, 
And  the  dews  of  night,  descending,  damp  the  dark  locks 

of  his  hair ; 
Cool  upon  his  brow  they  're  falling,  but  its  fever-throbs 

are  o'er, 
And  his  parched  lips  they  moisten,  but  those  lips  shall 

thirst  no  more  ! 

His  companions  come  at  morning,  come  to  look  on 
his  dead  face, 

Come  to  lay  him  to  his  grave-rest,  in  that  dreary,  desert 
place, 

Where  the  tropic  sun  glares  fiercely  on  the  wild,  un 
sheltered  plain, 

And  where  pour,  from  darkest  heavens,  rushing  floods 
of  winter  rain, — 

Where  shall  come  the  wild-bird's  screaming,  and  the 
whirlwind's  sounding  sweep, 

And  the  tramp  of  herded  bisons  shall  go  thundering 
o'er  his  sleep. 


174  THE    GOLD-SEEKER. 

There  are  piteous  sounds  of  mourning  in  a  far-off 

Northern  home, 
Where   o'er  childhood's  kindling   dawn-light    sudden 

clouds  of  darkness  come  ; 
There  are  heard  a  father's  groanings,  and  a  mother's 

broken  sighs,  — 
There  a  voiceless  sorrow  troubleth  the  clear  deeps  of 

maiden  eyes. 

In  their  fearful  dreams,  at  midnight,  they  behold  him 

left  to  die, 
With  the  hard,  hot  ground  beneath  him,  and  above  a 

brazen  sky,  — 
In  his  fainting,  in  his  thirsting,  in  his  pain  and  wild 

despair, 
Vainly  calling  on  his  dear  ones,  through  the  heavy 

desert  air ! 
O,  the  bitter  self-reproaches  mingled  in  the  cup   they 

drain  ! 
0,  their  poor  hearts,  pierced  and  tortured  by  a  sharp 

remorseful  pain,  — 

That  they  sent  their  best  and  dearest  from  his  home- 
love's  sheltering  fold, 
In  the  madness  of  adventure,  on  that   pilgrimage   of 

gold! 


175 


THE    POET    OF    TO-DAY. 


WHAT  siren  joy  from  thy  high  trust  hath  won  thee, 
O  Poet  of  to-day  ?  —  thou  still  unheard, 

Though  struggling  nations  cast  their  eyes  upon  thee. 
And  the  roused  world  is  waiting  for  thy  word  ! 

Why  lingerest  thou  amid  the  summer  places, 
The  gardens  of  romance,  the  haunt  of  dreams, 

'Mid  verdurous  shadows,  lit  by  fairy  faces, 
And  fitful  playing  of  soft,  golden  gleams  ? 

There  have  thy  fiery  thoughts  and  hopes  betaken 
To  still  delights,  and  loveliness,  and  rest, 

Thy  life  to  quiet  gliding,  lest  it  waken 
The  languid  lilies  sleeping  on  its  breast. 


176  THE  POET  OF  TO-DAY. 

The  rudest  wind  which  comes  where  thou  art  lying, 
Listening  the  chiming  waters  as  they  flow, 

May  scarcely  set  the  mournful  pines  a-sighing, 
Or  shake  down  rose-leaves  on  thy  dreaming  brow. 

Arouse  !  look  up,  to  where  above  thee  tower 
Regions  of  being  grander,  freer,  higher, 

Where  God  reveals  his  presence  and  his  power, 
E'en  as  of  old,  in  thunders   and  in  fire. 

Then  stray  no  longer  in  the  valleys  vernal ; 

Ascend  where  darkness  and  great  lights  belong, 
Sunshine  and  tempest ;  scale  the  heights  eternal, 

Go  forth  and  tread  the  mountain-paths  of  song ! 

From  those  far  summits  shall  thy  thought's  clear  voi 
cing 

Fall  like  the  sweep  of  torrents  on  the  world ; 
Thy  lays  speed  forth,  exultant  and  rejoicing, 

Their  eagle  pinions  on  the  winds  unfurled. 

Ah,  when  the  soul  of  ancient  song  was  blending 
With  the  rapt  bard's  in  his  immortal  strains, 

'T  was  like  the  wine  drunk  on  Olympus,  sending 
Divine  intoxication  through  the  veins. 


THE    POET  OF   TO-DAY.  177 

It  brought  strange,  charmed  words,  and  magic  singing, 
And  forms  of  beauty  burning  on  the  sight, 

Young  loves  their  flight  through  airs  ambrosial  winging, 
And  dark-browed  heroes  arming  for  the  fight, — 

The  trumpet's  "golden  cry,"  the  shield's  quick  flashing, 
The  dance  of  banners  and  the  rush  of  war,  — 

Death-showers  of  arrows  and  the  spear's  sharp  clash 
ing,— 
The  homeward  rolling  of  the  victor's  car ! 

But  ah  !  in  all  that  song's  heroic  story, 

Had  sad  Humanity  one  briefest  part? 
Sounds  through  the  clang  of  words,  the  storm,  the  glory, 

One  sharp,  strong  cry  from  out  her  bleeding  heart  ? 

But  unto  thee  the  soul  of  song  is  given, 

O  Poet  of  to-day,  a  grander  dower, — 
Comes  from  a  higher  than  the  Olympian  heaven, 

In  holier  beauty  and  in  larger  power. 

To  thee  Humanity,  her  woes  revealing, 

Would  all  her  griefs  and  ancient  wrongs  rehearse ; 

Would  make  thy  song  the  voice  of  her  appealing, 
And  sob  her  mighty  sorrows  through  thy  verse. 
12 


178  THE    POET    OF    TO-DAY. 

While  in  her  season  of  great  darkness  sharing, 
Hail  thou  the  coming  of  each  promise-star 

Which  climbs  the  midnight  of  her  long  despairing, 
And  watch  for  morning  o'er  the  hills  afar. 

Wherever  Truth  her  holy  warfare  wages, 

Or  Freedom  pines,  there  let  thy  voice  be  heard  ; 

Sound  like  a  prophet-warning  down  the  ages 
The  human  utterance  of  God's  living  word. 

But  bring  not  thou  the  battle's  stormy  chorus, 
The  tramp  of  armies,  and  the  roar  of  fight, 

Not  war's  hot  smoke  to  taint  the  sweet  morn  o'er  us, 
Nor  blaze  of  pillage,  reddening  up  the  night. 

O,  let  thy  lays  prolong  that  angel-singing, 
Girdling  with  music  the  Redeemer's  star, 

And    breathe  God's   peace,   to   earth  "  glad  tidings " 

bringing 
From  the  near  heavens,  of  old  so  dim  and  far  ! 


179 


ARNOLD    DE    WINKELRIED. 


DAY  immortal  in  Helvetia,  —  day  to  every  Switzer 
dear,  — 

Day  that  saw  Duke  Leopold  down  before  Sempach 
appear, 

Just  as  morning  fresh  and  stilly  dawned  above  the 
ancient  town, 

And  the  mountain  mists  uprolling  let  the  waiting  sun 
light  down. 

Full  four  thousand  knights  and  barons  marched   with 

Leopold  that  day, 
With  their  vassals,  squires,  and  burghers,  following  in 

grand  array  ; 
'T  was  the  Duke  himself  came  foremost,  slowly  came, 

in  state  arid  pride, 


180  ARNOLD    DE    WINKELRIED. 

With  the  knight   of  Ems,  brave  Eyloff,  gravely  riding 

at  his  side. 
Fiery-eyed  with  ancient  hatred  rode  proud  Gessler,  as 

became 
One  of  the   abhorred   lineage,  and  the   old  accursed 

name. 

It  was  while  their  serfs  and  hirelings  cut  the  Switzer's 

tall  grain  down, 
That  the  Austrian  knights  paraded  on  their  steeds  before 

the  town. 
"  Ho  !  our  reapers  would  have  breakfast !  "  thus  the 

Sire  de  Reinach  calls. 
"  The  Confederates  make  it  ready !  "  cried  the  Avoyer 

from  the  walls. 

Now,  upon  a  hill  to  northward,  in  among  the  sheltering 

wood, 
The  Confederates'  little  army  still  and  firm  and  fearless 

stood  ; 
They  from  Gersau,  Zug,  and  Glaris,  the  Waldstetten, 

and  Lucerne, 
But  not  a  burgher  or  a  knight  from  false  and  recreant 

Berne. 


ARNOLD    DE    WINKELRIED.  181 

There  with  looks  of  old  defiance   glared  they  down 

upon  the  foe, 
And  their  hearts  were  hot  for  vengeance  when  they 

thought  of  long-ago  ; 
For  full   many  a  pike  now  gleaming  in  the  pleasant 

summer  light. 
Had  their  fathers  dipped  in  Austrian  blood  at  Morgarten's 

mountain  fight ! 

Up  amid  the  winds  and  sunshine  Austria's  blazoned 
banners  danced,  — 

With  a  mighty  clash  of  armour  Austria's  haughty  hosts 
advanced  ; 

Calling  on  the  God  of  freedom,  with  a  shout  for  Swit 
zerland, 

Down  against  the  mailed  thousands  rushed  the  little 
patriot  band  ! 

With  their  short  swords,  and  their  halberds,  and  their 
simple  shields  of  wood,  — 

With  their  archers,  and  their  slingers,  and  their  pike- 
men  stern  and  rude. 

But  as  thick  as  stands  at  harvest  golden  grain  alono- 

the  Rhine, 
Stood  the  spears  of  the  invaders,  gleaming  down  the 

threatening  line ; 


182  ARNOLD    DE    WINKELRIED. 

And   as  pressed  the  hardy  Switzers  close  upon  their 

leader's  track, 
Everywhere  that  wall  of  lances  met  their  way,  and 

hurled  them  back ; 
Till  the  blood  of  brave  Confederates  stained  the  hill-side 

and  the  plain, 
Drenching  all  the  trampled  greensward  like  a  storm  of 

mountain  rain  ; 
Till  the  boldest  brow  was  darkened,  and  the  firmest 

lip  was  paled  ; 

Till  the   peasant's  heart  grew  fearful,  and  the  shep 
herd's  stout  arm  failed. 
Then  from  out  the  Swiss  ranks  stepping,  high  above 

the  tumult  called, 
He,  the  Knight  de  Winkelried,  Arnold,  pride  of  Under- 

wald  : 
"  Yield  not,  dear  and  faithful  allies  !  —  stay,  for  /  your 

way  will  make! 

Care  you  for  the  wife  and  children,  for  your  old  com 
panion's  sake ; 

Follow  now,  and  strike  for  freedom,  God,  and  Switzer 
land  ! "  he  cried  ; 

Full  against  the  close  ranks  rushing,  with  his  arms  ex 
tended  wide, 


ARNOLD    DE    WINKELRIED.  183 

Caught,  and  to  his  bosom  gathered,  the  sharp  lances  of 

the  foe  ! 
Then,  as  roll  the  avalanches  down  from  wilds  of  Alpine 

snow, 
Through  the  breach,  on  rolled  the  Switzers,  overthrew 

the  mail-clad  ranks, 
Smote,  as  smote   their  shepherd   fathers,  on  Algeri's 

marshy  banks  ! 
Everywhere  the  Austrian  nobles,  serfs,  and  hirelings 

turned  in  flight,  — 
Soon  was  seen  the  royal  standard  wavering,  falling  in 

the  fight ; 
'T  was  the  Duke   himself  upraised  it,  and  its  bloody 

folds  outspread, 
Waved  it,  till  his  guard  of  barons  all  went  down  among 

the  dead ; 

Then,  amid  the  battle  plunging,  bravely  bore  the  war 
rior's  part, 
Till  the  long  pike  of  a  Switzer  cleft  in  twain  his  tyrant 

heart ! 

With  their  souls  a  thirst  for  vengeance,  through  dark 
gorge  and  rocky  glen,  B 

On  the  footsteps  of  the  flying,  hot  pursued  the  moun 
tain  men, — 


184  ARNOLD   DE    WINKELR1EI). 

Smiting  down  the  bold  invaders,  till  the  ground  for 
many  a  rood, 

Eound  about  that  town  beleaguered,  was  afloat  with 
Austrian  blood. 

Then  arose  their  shouts  of  triumph  up  amid  the  shad 
owy  even, — 

Loud  rejoicings,  fierce  exultings,  storming  at  the  gates 
of  heaven, — 

Till  a  thousand  mountain  echoes  rendered  back  the 
mighty  cries, 

With  the  sound  of  earth's  contention  making  tumult 
in  the  skies. 

But  amid  the  rush  of  battle,  or  the  victor's  proud  ar 
ray, 

Came  the  saviour  of  Helvetia  ?  came  the  hero  of  the 
day? 

Prone  along  the  wet  turf  lay  he,  with  the  lances  he  had 
grasped, 

All  his  valor's  deadly  trophies  still  against  his  brave 
heart  clasped  ! 

Feeling  not  the  tempest-surging,  hearing  not  the  roar 
of  strife, — 

With  the  red  rents  in  his  bosom,  and  his  young  eye 
closed  on  life. 


ARNOLD    DE    WINKELRIED.  185 

And  when   thus  his  comrades  found  him,  there   was 

triumph  in  their  tears, — 
He  had  gathered  glory's  harvest  in  that  bloody  sheaf  of 

spears. 

Lo,  it  is  an  ancient  story,  and,  as  through  the  shades  of 
night, 

We  are  gazing  through  dim  ages,  on  that  fierce,  un 
equal  fight ; — 

But  the  darkness  is  illumined  by  one  grand,  heroic  deed, 

And  we  hear  the  shout  of  Arnold,  and  \ve  see  his  great 
heart  bleed  ! 

Yet  to-day,  O  hero-martyr,  does  the  Switzer  guard  thy 

name, 
And  to-day  thy  glorious  legend  touches  all  his  heart 

with  flame ; 
And  with  reverence  meek  and  careful  still  he  hands 

thy  memory  down, 
By  the  chapel  in  the  mountains,  and  the  statue   in  the 

town. 

Take  thou  courage,  struggling  spirit !    Thus,  upon  life's 

battle-plain, 
God  for  all  his  heroes  careth,  and  they  cannot  fall  in 

vain  ! 


186  ARNOLD    DE   WINKELRIED. 

Arid  of  heaven  for  ever  blessed  shall  the  soul  heroic  be 

Who,  oppression's  close  ranks  breaking,  makes  a  path 
way  for  the  free ; 

Though  his  faithful  breast  receiveth  the  sharp  lances  of 
the  foe, 

God,  the  God  of  freedom,  counteth  all  the  life-drops  as 
they  flow ! 

He  shall  have  the  tears  of  millions,  and  the  homage  of 
the  brave,  — 

He  shall  have  immortal  crownings,  and  the  world  shall 
keep  his  grave. 


187 


L'ENVOI. 


I  KNOW  these  lays  will  come  to  thee 

Like  flowers  along  thy  pathway  strown, 

And  wear,  to  thy  young,  generous  eyes, 
A  grace  arid  beauty  not  their  own. 

Thou  know'st  they  spring  where  deepest  shade 
And  blinding  sunlight  are  at  strife, — 

Faint  blooms  and  frail,  —  yet  bearing  thee 
Sweet  breathings  from  my  inmost  life. 

Or  come  like  waters,  leaping  out 
From  shadowy  places  to  the  day, 

To  catch  heaven's  brightness  on  their  waves, 
And  freshen  earth  along  their  way. 


188  L'ENVOI. 

A  streamlet  laughing  in  the  sun 

Is  afl  a  busy  world  may  hear,  — 
The  deepest  fountains  of  my  soul 

Send  up  their  murmurs  to  thine  ear. 

There  are  to  whom  these  lays  shall  come, 
Like  strains  that  skylarks  downward  send  ; 

But,  ah,  no  higher  than  thy  heart 
They  sing  to  thee,  beloved  friend ! 

For  in  thy  manhood  pure  and  strong, 

With  thy  great  soul,  thy  fresh  young  heart, 

Thou  livest  my  ideal  life, 

And  what  I  only  dream,  thou  art. 

The  Grecian  youth  whose  name  thou  bear'st,  — 

Who  nightly  with  the  billows  strove, 
And  through  the  wild  seas  cleaved  his  way 

To  the  dear  bosom  of  his  love,  — 

Ne'er  bore  a  braver  soul  than  thine, 

When  yawned  great  deeps,  and  storm-clouds  frowned, 
Nor  lifted  up,  amid  the  waves, 

A  brow  with  loftier  beauty  crowned. 


L'ENVOI.  189 

The  poet's  rare  and  wondrous  gifts 
In  thee  await  their  triumph-hour,  — 

There  sleep  within  thy  dreamy  eyes 
The  mighty  secrets  of  his  power. 

Thy  heart  with  one  high  throb  can  rise 

His  fair,  heroic  dreams  above, — 
There  breathes  more  passion  in  thy  voice 

Than  in  a  thousand  lays  of  love. 

Ah,  know'st  thou  not  the  while  thou  deem'st 

The  poet's  mission  most  divine, 
Life's  grand,  unwritten  poetry 

Goes  out  from  natures  such  as  thine  ? 

What  though  it  falleth  brokenly 
And  faintly  on  the  world's  dull  ear,  — 

Though  clamorous  voices  cry  it  down, 
To  God  it  rises,  pure  and  clear  ! 

It  cometh  as  a  service  glad,  — 

A  music  all  as  full  and  sweet 
As  though  the  stars  hymned  forth  their  joy, 

And  rolled  their  anthems  to  His  feet. 


190 


When,  like  the  Grecian  youth,  thou  seest 
The  midnight  tempests  gather  round, — 

When  storm-clouds  seern  to  flood  the  heavens, 
And  all  the  starry  lights  are  drowned, — 

» 

Upborne  by  angel-hands,  mayst  thou 

Through  life's  wild  sea  right  onward  sweep, 

To  where  Hope's  signal  lights  the  night, 
And  Love  stands  watching  by  the  deep  ! 


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